


a moment to be brave

by Tsume_Yuki



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Asexual Enjolras, But Cosette's now a bit of a fire cracker, F/M, Gen, Historical Inaccuracies, Self Insert as Cosette, Self-Insert, in which Marius proves a little bland and boring compared to Enjolras, mechanic Cosette, sorry Marius
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-01-07 18:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12238299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsume_Yuki/pseuds/Tsume_Yuki
Summary: Reborn as Les Misrables’ Cosette, she’s aware she could live a good, safe life if she follows the plan, only there’s so much her future-formed ideas could fix, so much progress can be made. Only Marius seems so very boring, and Enjolras so very… not.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

**February 1829**

 

“She will be of eligible age to marry soon, will she not?”

Jean Valjean feels a shiver run down his spine at the very thought, keeping his face carefully blank.

This man (one of those learned men that have come to trek back and forth throughout his household in increasing degrees of frequency) stares at him, bright eyes housed within a lined and educated face.

"Cosette is fourteen,” he stresses, refusing to allow his eyes to flick back towards the doorway behind which Cosette resides.

He had imagined much on the run, had pictured a life living from one meal to the next, had dreamed and prayed for the chance to carve out as successful a life as he had boasted while under the alias of Monsieur Madeleine.

He had never thought, for even a moment, it would be Cosette that would bring them such fortune.

When he had picked her up that Christmas day, when she had looked upon him with such knowing eyes, part of him had wondered. When the girl proved a quick study, amazing the nuns and holy men with whom they stayed, he had been a tad startled. After all, from what little of her life he had witnessed, he wouldn’t have believed her capable of reading and writing. She took lessons from the learned men of the convent and she breezed through them with an ease that startled them all.

Soon enough, aged nine, she was submitting papers to Collège de Sorbonne, Paris’ University, under the penname of ‘C. Fauchelevent’.

Things did not come to head until Cosette turned eleven and the University’s head of the science faculty turned up on the doorsteps of the convent, his arms loaded with papers and determined to find the ‘gem of a young man’ the holy building held.

To say that the man dismissed Cosette as the origin of the papers would be an understatement; had gone so far as to threaten to bring the law down upon their heads for false truths.

Valjean had been struck motionless, frozen with fear, but Cosette had simply spoken, expanded upon the pages and pages of papers within the man’s arms. Of her thoughts on human behaviour, on philosophy and the purpose of mankind, of electricity and her prototype steam turbine to generate such power, of her behaviour-conditioning experiments with the mutt she had convinced the priest to allow into their halls. It explained why she had always been ringing a bell and why Pavlov had taken to salivating at the noise the action produced.

It shamed him, quite frankly. For while he had always understood that there had been an uncanny intelligence behind the deep blue of Cosette’s eyes, intellect growing so strong and steady that it’d refused to wilt even throughout her less than desirable childhood, even knowing that, he still had not comprehended the weight of it. But watching her impress a man who still regarded her as less simply due to her gender, watching her force a man to look past his misconceptions and impressions of her status as female to see the very potential she houses beneath was astounding.

The sheer amount of ideas that poured from the girl’s mouth, the way her hands gesture passionately as she explained concepts one after another, it was as unbelievable as it was astounding.

The professor stumbled away that day, having spent the better part of the morning and the entirety of the night listening to Cosette, Cosette who became so excited and enthralled within her discussion that she too failed to acknowledge the time and near dropped into a state of slumber with her porridge as her pillow, sat up to the breakfast table.

Once that night was over, foolishly, Valjean had believed that the end of it all.

But no. After that first man came another, then another, and another and another until they were suddenly being brought onto university grounds, his dear little Cosette enticed to lecture after lecture. Genius, they would whisper as she sprouts idea after idea to the masses of learned men, who gather as if the knowledge of the universe flows from her lips.

Valjean does not understand a quarter of what Cosette speaks of when she begins talking with those learned men, but he does know they all but worship her brain. He can see it in their eyes, can see how they look upon her, how swiftly they work to scribble down her words.

Should have been born a man, some of them whisper. Think of how much progress France would have made had she been born male.

Valjean does not see it though, cannot even began to fathom how a change in Cosette’s gender would change her intellect. But he keeps his silence on that, unwilling to break the tentative peace Cosette has managed to create with these men of the mind.

“Fourteen for now,” the man (whose name Valjean cannot, for the life of him, recall) mutters, forcibly returning his mind to the present.

"We shall not be considering marriage for at least another two years.” That is Cosette’s wish, after all. Determined to continue expanding her horizons; the money is already flooding in from the inventions she is churning out. She wishes to keep doing what she loves and who is Valjean to stop her?

 

 

 

It takes far too long, but he eventually manages to evict the latest lecturer, doctor, professor... whatever that man had been. His official capacity does not matter, not to Valjean. Cosette had agreed to speak with him of her latest project and that is all he cares for.

Knocking gently upon the door, Valjean pushes the painted wood open, slipping calmly inside.

She is a curious thing, this little bird he had taken under his wing. Too intelligent by far, too delicate looking for all of the metal and heavy machinery she has begun producing. They source the components from several different blacksmiths, determined to see no design stolen. And when the pieces arrive, Cosette puts them together herself, with only Valjean to aid her in any heavy lifting. Not that she hasn't developed tools and levers and pulleys to do all of that for her. Still, the point stands that he would much rather risk his own neck beneath the heavier equipment then see it crash down on her fragile head.

"Papa. How can I help you?"

Hooking his foot beneath the slab of wood upon on the floor, Valjean gives a quick jerk of his leg and the little trolley rolls out, drawing his darling daughter out from whatever it is she's working on. Her face, so fair and pale, is stained with the canola oil she has him purchase in bulk, fingers coated with ink.

"What are you working on, Cosette?"

"An automobile. I'm improving Isaac de Rivaz's original design. Exceptionally clever man, that one. A shame he passed last year, I'd liked to have met him..." she trails off, working her lip into her mouth, teeth scraping across her lower lip before she seems to finally accept he will be allowing her to whittle away no more of her day within the workshop.

Peeling off the hard-textile gloves she wears, Cosette brushes the few loose hairs back from her face, adjusting the waistband of her borrowed trousers.

Valjean had been rather against her loaning his old clothes, right up until Cosette has showcased exactly what would happen if the loose material of her dress were to be caught in the mechanics of whatever project it'd been at the time. A demonstration she had produced with a dead pig dressed in her old 'finery'.

To say the least, the end result had not been pretty.

The little mademoiselle had certainly gotten her way after that brutally effective show, just under the promise that she would not attempt to traverse around outside in her 'engineering clothes', as she did so call them.

"Regardless," she continues, snatching up a roll of parchment and unveiling it before his eyes, "I'm working on a far more efficient variation. It'll run on gasoline, most effective substance I can get my hands on right now, and soon enough France'll be able to produce these babies for the masses."

She taps lovingly against the metal framework, ignoring the slight shudder it gives, near displacing her 'soldering iron'. By the grace of God does Valjean wish she'd never invented that. Effective or not, he does not trust it. 'Powered' by the steam generator she had created a year ago, the thing spits fire that she feeds 'soldering' into, allowing her to join metal together. It's something he'd never have believed a man capable of, not what his little Cosette manages.

He hadn't expected this outcome when telling her tales of his past exploits as mayor. Hadn't expected her to take her inventions (from the turnable 'washing machine', to the new stove that worked with the steam generator she'd made and all the others) and use them as an economy boosting tool. Pushing him into purchasing large buildings and training up those of the lower class looking for a job (man or woman) on how to produce her design to be then sold on to the middle and upper class.

And not just the French either.

They'd had a German visitor to the university a scant few weeks ago, one whom had been very interesting in Cosette's now patented designs.

Never had he expected that poor little girl sweeping the floors to be capable of single-handedly changing the French market as she has.

"Well I am sure that your... babies," Valjean grits it out, because despite the awful phrasing, it is by far a better 'baby' than another Cosette could get into her brain about creating, "will be there in the morning. You must sleep, Cosette."

"Yes, of course. I'll turn everything off first. Good night, Papa."

  


 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

  
As an engineer in the life before this one, the woman now known as Cosette had spent but a mere week trying to determine if she should hide her intelligence when Valjean plucked her up from that awful household. If such a place could hold the title of ‘house’, nevermind ‘home’. The parenting skills of that couple had been truly foul and she's glad to see the back of them.

When it comes down to it, in better circumstances it'd been impossible for her to not thrive, to not strive for the very best because that had been what her studies had been for in a previous life. Everything was just so... behind here, so terribly simple compared to her own 'past', and it would be until the day she died.

But that doesn't mean she cannot keep striving forwards, cannot drag France into an Industrial Revolution, even if it does come kicking and screaming because she is, heaven forbid, a woman with ideas.

While she might not be there to see it, these 'advancements' her 'genius brain' has come up with will mean that when it finally swings around to 2017, the year she had died, then things should be more technologically advanced.

It's just a shame she hadn't been a history buff, then she might have been able to be of some use to actually good causes.

As things stand, Cosette finds herself pushing her Papa into funding exactly what her 21st century mindset dictates to be a good idea.

If that happens to be dragging Paris towards progress and enlightenment, then so be it.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

**May 1829**

 

"And how do you plan on doing that?"

Enjolras startles slightly, drawing back from his conversation with Combeferre to find the source of the voice.

A young lady, barely more than a girl really, is standing with her arms wrapped around a bunch of rolled up papers and a frown on her face. She's also looking directly at him, an all too clear indication that it is he who she addresses. There's a set to her lips, proud and challenging and it has Enjolras' back straightening, body twisting until he's facing her fully.

"My pardon, Mademoiselle?"

"Don't play coy. You were just saying how you think the working class is suppressed, something I completely agree with you upon, and that something needs to change. But how? How are you going to ensure change? We've been in a constant flux of change for the past few decades that it seems as if we'll never have a steady leadership nor a steady economy. I promise you, Monsieur, it is the latter the little people are far more concerned about."

"So what do you suggest? That we just sit back, allow things to continue as they are with a head of state so corrupt France withers and dies like so many freshly cut roses beneath a summer sun?" Enjolras scoffs, shoulders broad as he stares down at the little lady.

She matches him, burning glare for burning glare, stubborn frown for stubborn frown. She's even adopted the same offensively defensive posture as he.

"Of course not, but rash actions with little thought of the consequences towards the lives of the ones you claim need our aid is not the answer."

"And you believe what? That small inconsequential acts of goodness will suddenly spread? That everyone will open their eyes without true prompting and look upon the poverty that permits not just Paris but France itself? Those eyes are going to need prying open because right now, I can assure you that Paris' royalist upper class are purposefully turning a blind eye."

"And you think inciting a revolution in this climate will be better? We might be years away from the right mindset for such a thing and lighting that powder keg too early would only result in further oppression of the lower class. Not to mention the small-scale explosion that'd swallow those few daring revolutionaries whole," says the woman, a firm set to her shoulders, head cocked ever so slightly to a side as she challenges him to finish that return fire, to keep the argument going. Enjolras will gladly oblige.

"What do you suggest them, Mademoiselle? That we try to educate the upper class upon issues they are nothing but deaf to? They have never cared to hear such an thing before."

"Then you're contradicting your own concept of change. You're dealing with the symptoms and not the cause. Say you roll out your revolution successfully and improve life for the lower class. Then what? Sooner or later, those with the actual power, the monetary and intellectual wealth will figured out another way to suppress them and it'll be right back where we started. You'd need to devise a system to ensure change remains and that's not going to come about if you go charging in head-first!"

Enjolras has no idea which of them took a step closer, if it was she who approached him or he who approached her as they argued, but what remains is that they are suddenly so much closer than before. He could extend his arm before himself and his elbow would come to rest upon the crown of the little lady's head.

They're close enough he can see those dark eyes are blue and blaze, a winter's fire with its sudden, scorching heat. The determination there, it crashes against his thoughts, leaves him twisted and turning in the wake of an information over-wash.

Because she's right.

He's seen the issues that linger within Paris (and undoubtedly, his country), and he'd recognised that disease. Knew it needed dealing with.

But once the infection is cleansed, how could he possibly stop a second onset, one perhaps even worse than which came before it? He has no plan, no concept of aftercare, just a determination to bring about a cleansing of society’s thoughts and misconceptions.

Would he even be treating the infection; would even be healing the wound? Or would he just be slapping a pretty bandage over the top and praying it didn't fall free?

"You're right," Enjolras agrees, wondering if his expression is as dazed as he feels inside. If this sensation of stupefied wonder is perhaps visible upon his feature. "I've been thinking far too small. It is not enough to have a plan of action, there has to be some form of long term change, an assurance that Parisians will not fall back upon the way things once were."

Minuscule. His thoughts have been minuscule in the long run.

Unacceptable.

He cannot carry on like this. Paris, no, France deserves the very best from him and by god, will Enjolras ensure his country receives such a thing.

"There's so much more to be done. You're right," he repeats and the girl stares at him.

Her eyes are the darkest blue, wide and utterly focused.

Enjolras’ chest is working hard, rising and falling to draw breath after their rapid-fire argument and his sudden enlightenment.

She’s still looking at him, but it’s only now that she’s actually taking his face, taking his features in.

It’s not the same eyes other women look upon him with.

She smiles, pale lips twisting up and she just keeps staring.

“You’re amazing,” she breathes and Enjolras jolts.

 

 

What? What does that mean?

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Combeferre stares, well aware his mouth is wide open, but quite unable to help himself.

The localised summer storm in the form of a mademoiselle bows her head to them before retreating back to her companion, an elder male whom must be acting as her escort, one who seems quite unimpressed by Enjolras’ very existence.

Enjolras who's more riled up than Combeferre has seen him all month. Never before has Combeferre seen such a reaction from someone overhearing one of Enjolras’ little speeches; neither slow nods of agreement or blatant dismissal. He’s never seen someone agree and then come up with counterarguments, or just instigate a critical discussion with his revolutionary inclined friend.

He's never seen Enjolras concede to someone else's words as has just happened.

“Amazing? What does that even mean?” Grantaire grumbles, eyeing the woman as she disappears from sight. It's clear that the word isn't the problem for their ever-tipsy friend, just the context within which it is used.

Enjolras finally seems to pull himself together somewhat, thoughts reassembling behind his brilliant blue eyes. It is as if the little lady has left part of her storm within their friend; there is a force gathering around Enjolras, empowering that purpose he is forever bleeding.

"Was that Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, Monsieur?"

Their quartet turns at the sudden address, tearing Combeferre's eyes from Enjolras to instead find himself looking upon Sebastian Lierau, head of the university's science department.

He's staring after the young woman that just swept into their lives, a winter's flash-flood personified.

"We were never graced with a name-"

"She is a little abrasive but one supposes that comes with such genius. Much like a ghost, that one. However, if she's deigned to show herself, I don't doubt she'll be throwing the whole department into another storm for the day. Excuse me, gentlemen."

He hurries off, leaving the four of them on their own and Combeferre notices Marius appears to have had little to say, seems to have gone unusually quiet in these last few minutes, ever since the utter oddity that is apparently Mademoiselle Fauchelevent had blown in out of nowhere.

The besotted expression answers the question of exactly why Marius has fallen so silent.

“Wasn’t she beautiful?”

“Marius? What are you talking about?”

“That girl…”

“You mean the one that was just arguing with Enjolras?” Grantaire splutters ludicrously, stressing upon Enjolras’ name because there are so very, very few people who could go toe to toe with their blond friend like that.

The way in which Grantaire considers Marius is exactly how Combeferre finds himself feeling; wondering if the young law student has witnessed the same interaction that they were just present for.

But Marius’ expression shows he is far, far away.

"She was captivating.”

"Captivating indeed,” Enjolras agrees thoughtfully, having retrieved a small notebook from the inner pocket of his jacket and a slender stick of charcoal, “she made some excellent points that I’ll have to consider further.”

There is a moment where Combeferre meets Grantaire’s eyes, bloodshot brown and sun-dappled green, and they silently come to the conclusion the two fools have both seen only two sides of that confrontation.

Neither feel incline to crack that box open right now, so with a silent agreement passing between them, they set that topic aside for later.

Especially seeing as Enjolras appears to have utterly forgotten about his earlier speech, a small blessing. Combeferre normally has no issue listening to his friend.

The hour before a big exam, however, is a very different matter indeed.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“Ah, good morning,” Cosette murmurs, tucking one strand of fly away brown hair behind her ear, “you’re friends with that blond would-be revolutionary, aren’t you? Would you be agreeable to passing this onto him for me?”

Holding out one of the many essays that’d been a little too liberal for the university to accept, Cosette smiles softly up at the young man, well aware of Valjean’s imposing figure at her back.

After that meeting in the university's courtyard, thoughts of revolution have been spinning rapidly within Cosette's head. Ideas of progress, the forceful awakening of Paris' (and all of France's) inhabitants. It's a fanciful dream, one she has considered many times before, yet something that would be incapable of coming into fruition without an unparalleled force of people behind them.

Instead, Cosette had turned her attentions upon steady progress, had listened to every story Valjean had been willing to offer her. Tales of his progress within that small town he had been mayor of, how he had turned it all around.

But then the people had not changed, had not showcased the same overwhelming goodness that Valjean just... embodies.

Regardless, Cosette had soaked it up, all of it. His ideas, his experience. His unwavering belief that there was goodness to be found in humanity.

While she shall never believe in god, will never believe in an almighty presence when there's just so many contradictions in the bible... there are some concepts that are applicable in life.

Such as be kind to thy neighbour. That whole 'Good Samaritan' thing.

And perhaps there's the drive to make Valjean proud. When he had shared his name, his full story with her... Cosette has never met someone so worthy of respect than he. Whatever he may consider himself, a sinner to be judged, Cosette doesn't care. He'll forever be the most amazing person she has ever had the pleasure of knowing.

That shall never change.

"To Enjolras?"

"Oh, is that his name? Yes, the blond I was arguing with. Do you mind, awfully? I haven't the slightest idea where to begin with finding him."

The young man, with his soft auburn hair and rounded spectacles, offers her a hesitant smile. It does little to hide his confusion.

  
"Of course, Mademoiselle..."

"Fauchelevent. Cosette Fauchelevent."

"Tarot Combeferre. It's a pleasure."

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“Oh! Has our glorious leader received a love letter?” Grantaire coos mockingly, eyebrows wiggling atop his brow as he eyes the engrossed blond.

Combeferre much is too busy focused on Enjolras to pay the drunk’s words any true attention, but they still register. They're background information, categorised alongside the slowly dying the candles that light their room. Something to acknowledge but nothing to really deliberate over.

No, he’s much more interested in the intent set to Enjolras’ features, how his friend’s river blue eyes snap back and forth across the papers that he had personally delivered their leader.

“She writes papers, papers on the concept of progress. On revolution. These are… Does she have anymore?” Enjolras asks, bright and excited.

Combeferre’s still attempting to wrap his head around Mademoiselle Fauchelevent writing upon such a dangerous topic. Academically even. No no no. That cannot be right.

Only, when Enjolras passes him the parchment, it proves true.

The little mademoiselle who may yet to have even see her sixteenth birthday has indeed written such things. Her language, the way in which she presents her ideas, critiquing both the system and her own solutions... it's incredible. Far beyond what Combeferre would have been capable of at that age, despite the best education money could buy.

The more he reads, the more fascinated he becomes.

Never has he read of a person so self-aware, so objective within their own ideas that they could bounce the justifications of their thoughts back and forth between good and bad. It's astounding, as if someone has taken a handful of Enjolras' ideas, jotted them down onto paper and then just, furthered them.

He can understand why his friend is so excited over the idea.

"I shall ask her, if Mademoiselle Fauchelevent is amiable to another conversation with myself."

The rest of their little group crowds around and Combeferre smooths the paper out upon the table top, so that they might read and discuss.

"Come now, Marius. What troubles you so?"

In the corner, Marius looks glum.

A bit shamed that it took the drinker of them to notice Marius' state, Combeferre toys with the idea of going over there.

As irritating as Marius' mooning over the 'fair maiden' has become, he is still, after all, their friend.

With that thought in mind, Combeferre pushes back from the table, sucking in a deep breath. With any luck, he'll have inhaled some patience with that one.

Dealing with a freshly rejuvenated Enjolras and a mopey Marius in one night is far too much to ask of one man alone.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“Mademoiselle?”

Twisting to the source of the voice, Cosette offers the young man a small smile; his visage is familiar but she’s not known for her ability to recall faces to names.

"Monsieur? Can I help you?”

"The delivery you entrusted me with, one of your papers for my rather like-minded friend? I have it here, read and returned.”

And while the young man remains nameless she recognises him in context now. He’s part of that blond speaker’s group.

"Oh! Did he find it particularly enlightening?”

"Indeed. Actually, he wishes to enquire if you have anymore."

At that, Cosette grins, passing over to the little table she has appropriated in the library. All of her work is thrown hazardously across the surface, a territorial claim, a dare for anyone to try and move it. Valjean sits slouched in one chair, though his eyes darken as they land on the man that has come to join them upon the table.

"I don't have anything on that particular topic on my person right now, but I've got some things on the concept of human thought and behaviour that he may find interesting. Of course, if you're willing to meet me this time next week, I'll happily hand you some of my more... idealistic papers to pass along, if that's alright with you, Monsieur?"

"I- yes, of course... what are you working on right now?"

Pausing, Cosette tilts her head back to look the stranger in the eye, considering the sincerity of his words. But no, those warm forest green eyes are dripping with honest curiosity.

"At the moment, biology. Tracking the physical traits through family lines, be they human or dog or even something as mundane as plants, in order to see the pattern. Like how a blond woman will give birth to a dark-haired child if the father is dark of hair, but if that child goes on to have a child with another of dark hair, there's a chance the mother's blond hair could reappear in the grandchild. A concept of inheritance."

"That sounds fascinating."

"Brilliant. I'm glad you agree... if you're not too busy, you're welcome to stay and work with me on it."

 

 

 

 

By the end of the day, Cosette had learnt a great deal of things about her unplanned but welcomed company.

His name is Tarot Combeferre, though they have been introduced once before (she doesn’t recall). He's twenty-two and studies science, or what atrocities pass as science in the present day, though he has yet to select his topic of study.

The more they discuss, the sooner they end up deviating from the previous topic to branch out into psychology and philosophy, particularly focused on the concept of man and his place upon the earth.

By the time the sun has set and the candles have burned for an hour too long, Cosette has not even gotten half of the work she wishes to complete done, but has instead got branches upon branches of topics, of ideas and thoughts and theories to later explore.

"The term genius is well applied," Combeferre decides, staring down at his own mess of scribbled as Valjean flicks to the next page of his book. Cosette considers the man she knows as her papa before returning her attention to the bespectacled young man she shares a table with.

"Is it the genius, or just the ability to ask for questions, to seek further knowledge and apply it though?"

"...You've twisted my brain into a fine knot this day, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. Please, cease and desist."

"I do think you can call me Cosette after this brain-storming session, Monsieur."

"Brain-storming. I like it, an apt terminology. I should have set off hours ago, but I can hardly say this was not a pleasant way-lay. My thanks, Mademoiselle Cosette." He bows, offering Valjean a slight nod of his head before he leaves.

And then she gets the paternal stare of disapproval. Well, not disapproval. Just... well, Cosette isn't sure what kind of stare that is.

Only that she doesn't like it. Not one whit.

 

  


 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**August 1829**

 

"That's the wrong pocket, I'm afraid."

Gavroche's hand stills, the edge of his fingertips still brushing the pocket of the lady's dress. He'd assumed, because her dress was odd enough to have pockets that she had to have some serious money to afford customising such a lovely dress. More money than sense.

But she'd noticed the second his hand had tried sneaking into her pocket and now her chaperone's hand has clamped down atop his shoulder.

"Lemme go, I've got lice and I bite!" Gavroche hisses, baring his teeth to strengthen his threat. Though he's lying about the lice; he hasn't caught any of them yet but even then, it's only a matter of time.

Ever since they moved here to Paris he's been thrown out of the home more and more often, told to bring some money back or to not come back at all. Then he'd stolen from the wrong man, but instead of beating him, Courfeyrac had brought him along to a little cafe.

Gavroche had stopped going 'home' after that. The cafe has become his new home, Les Amis his new family. They are all incredible. They are also absent at the moment and he's been caught trying to steal from a lady. A lady he's suddenly on eye-level with.

"Is it money for the sake of money, or money for the sake of food?" she asks, a little tilt of a smile to her lips, her eyes soft.

Gavroche grimaces, looking between her gentle facade and the man who's still got a grip on his shoulder. But no, even that guy doesn't look angry. Just, just a little sad.

"Sweetheart, are you after money for food?"

Sweetheart?

Distrustful, Gavroche tests the old man's grip with a quick jolt but it's hellishly strong. He's not getting out of here without a fight and he's in condition for that. It sucks, but he's not tall enough, not big enough, not old enough to take this guy on.

The lady sighs, running a hand across the top of her head and then scowling as she displaces the artfully displayed bonnet she wears.

"Come on."

 

 

 

That's how Gavroche finds himself sat in one of Paris' many inns, cleaner than what he'd have been able to get into himself but oh so obviously still working class. It doesn't matter; the broth that's brought of the table if filling, the best thing he's tasted in these past few weeks, the bread still soft as he tears into it.

The lady and her chaperone (father? Grandfather? Uncle?) offer him no harsh words for his table manners, even as they sit and primly eat their own portions. It's clear this isn't their usual spot, they stick out like a sore thumb and the matron of this place looks one kind word away from fainting in shock.

"Wha'd'ya want from me?"

"Who says I have to want something?" the lady murmurs with a sly little smile, twirling her spoon nimbly between their fingers, back and forth in a good show of dexterity. Gavroche knows, he's done that many times before; it makes for nimble fingers.

When he stubbornly folds his arms, the lady rolls her eyes and bushes her own bread towards him.

Ever the opportunist, Gavroche tears right into it as quickly as possible.

"You're wearing Enjolras' rosette, Sweetheart."

"You know Enjolras?" The words slip free from his mouth before he could ever hope to stop them. But to even recognise the rosette as belonging to Enjolras, she has to have some kind of idea of the cause too.

"My name is Cosette Fauchelevent, and this is my, grandfather."

"Fauchelevent? I know you, they all talk about you at the cafe."

At that, Cosette does look quite lost all of a sudden, as if he's confused her.

"Who are these people that talk about me?"

"Courfeyrac. Him and Grantaire and Combeferre and Pontmercy and Enjolras. More Pontmercy than anyone else.... says your eyes are like sapphires, he does."

Mademoiselle Cosette's face goes a fantastic red and Gavroche grins, bold and bright. "Well, to answer your question, I don't know Enjolras really, we just pass letters and papers back and forth. I do know Monsieur Combeferre though. He told me the significance of the rosette. I have my own somewhere back home."

 

 

 

He can't quite remember what they talk about after that, but Gavroche remembers having to insist he has a home to go back to (the cafe. It's not somewhere he can stay and sleep but it's home all the same) and he's good getting there on his own.

Cosette frowns as he takes off; he doesn't forget the look on her face 'cause it's not one he's ever seen before. Not directed at him anyway.

 

 

 

 

He doesn't plan on finding her again, but when he's scrambling through the streets and he spots her, well he just goes over to make sure she's having a good day, doesn't he?

It's not like he's disappointed that it ends with his belly full and little crusts of bread beneath his nails.

Even better, Cosette has something she wants him to pass onto Enjolras. Not that he needs more of an excuse to go and stick around with the Les Amis, to spend some more time in Cafe Musain. But it's nice.

He's not seen an expression quite like what Enjolras wears when Gavroche declare she has something for him, something Mademoiselle Fauchelevent entrusted him with delivering.

He's heard them talking about her before, about her ideas for progress within Paris and all of France. He's got no idea why they don't just bring her to join in.

But he agrees to keep passing their papers back and forth.

He doesn't recall when he passes the first paper to someone who's not a member of Les Amis, doesn't remember the first day he ends up staying the night at the Fauchelevent house when he 'drops from exhaustion'.

He thinks it's because Cosette piled him up with food then stuck him in front of the fireplace to 'warm his bones' before he went out. Next thing he remembers is waking up in the spare room on a bed comfier than anything he's slept in before.

At some point Cosette promised to wash his clothes but they never came back and he's suddenly got a wardrobe filled in that spare room with little shirts and trousers that couldn't fit either of the Fauchelevents and have to be for him.

He doesn't know at what point this moved from being a quick errand run to him being employed as a courier. Because that's what he is. Cosette leaves him a few coins every day, more than anyone else would pay for a street rat to run their errands, but that's what happens. And life is... comfortable here.

He's got a warm, dry place to rest his head, the promise of food and it's not like going to see the Les Amis is exactly a chore to him.

"Gavroche? Could I borrow a moment of your time, please?"

Making his way over to Cosette, Gavroche eyes the many, many papers that litter her desk. She's a strange one, this Mademoiselle. In the comfort of her own home or in her not so little workshop upon the university grounds, she parades about in men's clothes, working hands on with 'machinery'.

All Gavroche knows is that it brings in a lot of money and gets all the huffy old men excited for some reason. He has seen an automobile or two pass by on the streets now, which'd been weird to say the least. Slower than a horse, but they looked mighty comfortable.

"Yeah, Cosette? Wan'me ta run to the cafe again?"

Cosette grins, reaching over when he's close enough to ruffle his hair, patting the empty chair in a clear sign he should take a seat.

So take a seat he does, frowning as Cosette pushes what is clearly a report onto the table space before him.

"Can you read, Gavroche?"

"No," he spits mulishly, turning to frown up at Cosette. He knows her, knows for some unthinkable reason she has a soft-spot for him, knows she won't tease him over this lack of ability.

But he's got no idea where she's going with this.

"In a few months, I plan on giving a speech at university over the concept of a public school in Paris, somewhere that the children under 12 could attend to learn their numbers and letters and to think for themselves. I've got the building and someone from the church has agreed it's a good charity project, so he's going to teach there. But I need a thorough case study to go alongside the results from the school. If I can prove a child can learn a significant amount with the right method of teaching..." she trails off, looking at him expectedly and Gavroche realises with a jolt he's the case study. Part of the 'science project'. He's helped Cosette every so often, but he's never actually been involved. Just helped pass her things, make observations aloud for her to write down. Now she wants him to join in?

"Why? Why're you doing this now?"

"Enjolras," Cosette says, as if his should be the answer enough.

When it shows upon his face that such a thing is not an acceptable reason, she huffs and grabs some worksheets, all with large letters drawn upon them. He knows enough to recognise them as letters, but which ones they are, he doesn't have the foggiest clue.

"He goes on and on about the betterment of Paris, but helping the people would be so much better than if I went out and attended a rally. Education means the Bourgeoisie won't be able to suppress the working class that way. Once people have learnt something, learnt to question the world around them, they start striving for better. Just like Paris will not have been built in a day, neither will a better society. But I can build the first house here. We could build the first house. Will you help me, Gavroche?"

"Well when you put it that'a way, how can I say no?"

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**January 1830**

 

Though they exchange letters and papers often, Enjolras does not run into Mademoiselle Fauchelevent until the second dawning day of the new year.

 

He's in the library, looking for a particular book upon philosophy. Greek in origin, as whole the name eludes him; Enjolras knows he'll recognise it when he spots the cover.

His fingers are working through the spines, some old, some new, some rebound and others with their original backing. There is so much he has yet to learn, that much has become evident as he talks with the rest of Les Amis, as he re-evaluates all he knows, as he reads the papers Combeferre and then later Gavorche brings him.

He hadn't been thinking deep enough, far enough. There's not been enough thought, he'd been so short-sighted and looking back upon it now, it makes him cringe internally.

All these brilliant ideas, but with no concept of how to implement them.

Yes, the Misérables could revolt, yes they could raise the Parisians in a revolution. But king or no king, they would still be poor. There is a monumental task set before him; fixing a country that has long since been brought to a state of ruin, situated upon the very cliff-edge, threatening to tilt with the slightest breeze. Even if the weather stays kind, the crumbling foundations that erode away will ensure the current state falls soon enough. How much suffering such a wait will mean, how many more lives that will be lost, Enjolras cannot even begin to guess.

His fingertips halt at the perfect little gap between books, neatly trimmed nails tapping at 'Aristotle’s Complete Works'. This had been where he found it last.

Confound it, someone must be perusing the very pages he needs. There had been a quote in there, one he’d been longing to include within a speech but he had not been able to work in the source material. Until now, that is. Perhaps the culprit Is still here within the library? Surely, they would not have travelled far with that book; despite it’s significant contents, it makes for particularly dry reading.

Scanning his surroundings, Enjolras makes his way down the aisle, looking over the handful of people whom occupy the library.

Two he recognises from his own course, would be lawyers ready to churn out more money for those who have already grown fat upon their wealth. There is another male, one whom he doesn’t recognise but is young enough to perhaps be a first year; understandable why Enjolras would not know his face. The final figure… the final figure is wearing a dress.

His pace dies, the creek of floorboards beneath his feet falling silent. She’s young, still as fresh faced as when he last saw her, though her features had blurred from his memory with the passage of time. She’s also watching him, fearlessly making eye contact the moment such a thing is possible.

“It’s Monsieur Enjolras, right?” she asks, fingers tapping against the spine of the book she’d been studying, a very familiar book indeed. “I wouldn’t forget a face that pretty.”

"Mademoiselle..." Enjolras trails off, eyeing the book currently cradled within the girl's hands.

Cosette Fauchelevent has her hip cocked against the side of the table, hair pulled back into a messy bun that sits at the base of her skull. She's remarkably clean, but that only makes the ink stains upon her fingers stand out more. Those dark-dipped fingers currently holding onto the very book he'd been looking for. Additionally, if the not-quite woman is here, that means her father (grandfather?) is lurking around somewhere, chaperoning. Combeferre has spoken of the man often enough, though he never joins in their discussions.

"Yes, Monsieur?"

She smiles, eyes dropping to the book and it transforms into a teasing grin. She knows he wants that particular title, had probably watched him as he searched the shelves for it.

"I'm sorry, can I help you, Monsieur Enjolras?"

Lips pursed, Enjolras considers the woman before him with thinly veiled annoyance. She's smiling and there's the same glint in her eyes that Grantaire gets, the gleam when he's too far into his cups but still stewing in a good mood. She's teasing him and Enjolras doesn't have a clue how to handle that. No woman has ever teased him before, nor has he ever witnessed a woman teasing a man. He has no prior knowledge to work from here.

But just as the little Mademoiselle hadn't balked in challenging him with an argument all those months ago, Enjolras will not back down either.

“Are you finished with that particular book, Mademoiselle?”

“Hmmm… Not quite yet. There’s a few concepts I wish to discuss, but my usual partner shan’t be joining me today. He doesn’t have the time, you see?”

Pulling out a chair, the little lady seats herself, placing the book down upon the table, movements openly demure as her nimble fingers smooth out the pages.

Jaw clenched, Enjolras stiffly joins her at the table, sliding into a chair. It would unbecoming if he were to remain towering over her and intimidation is a poor form of exerting control. One only needs to look upon the crown and national guard for such evidence. If that method were truly effective, then there would have been far less rebellions in France's history.

"Would you be willing to discuss the intricacies of Greek democracy, Monsieur Enjolras?"

The tip of a pen taps against paper, upon which he can see many words in a familiar hand. Cosette has one elbow resting upon the table, her chin cradled within her palm as she surveys him.

"If that is what you require to relinquish your book, Mademoiselle."

She smiles, eagerly reaching for his notes and soon enough, Enjolras' mind swirls.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

"-thinking that far ahead isn't something we've considered yet."

"So, you'd tear down an old regime without something to replace it with?"

Valjean can only watch in horror, because for all that their words are clashing... their bodies are in agreement, leaning into one another.

Cosette's shoulders are open without the defensive pride that so oft rests atop them, and the young man's hips angle towards her a surely as his face (twisted in annoyance and intrigue) does. They've abandoned all pretence of sitting correctly, both having abandoned the table top in favour of twisting to face one another, a brightness to Cosette's eyes that has become harder and harder to ignite.

No, Valjean can only watch, a heavy stone sinking within his stomach as if little girl comes alive before his eyes, a rose blooming and all for this too beautifully boy that shines like the sun.

"Of course not. We have a skeletal structure for the kind of framework we would introduce, elected officials that would represent different aspects of government."

"And from there? How do you stop the corruption from taking root again?"

"I believe removing the current regime would be more effective than dallying over what-ifs. Prevention is always something that can be discussed at a later date."

Cosette huffs, still utterly focused upon the young man; neither of them had noticed Valjean when he'd coughed, nor flinched when he had dropped a book a far too loudly upon the floor. That had gained him the attention of the rest of the library's occupants, so it had been with great discomfort that he had forgone he next plan to break their... fascination with each other.

The debate itself has left his head spinning. All he knows is that it is a blessing from his Lord in heaven that they have kept their voices low and tones hushed. Otherwise, he doesn't imagine they would not have already been thrown from the library, if not arrested for disturbing the peace.

It is long past time he breaks this up now.

As much as allowing Cosette her freedoms and the chances to chase her happiness brings him joy, they do have things to be considering today.

"Cosette."

Cosette startles, her lips parted, caught right at the beginning of her sentence. Her company seems confused as to her sudden distraction before he too recalls where they are, a look of surprise overtaking his face, though for what reason, Valjean cannot even begin to guess.

"You wished to visit one of the factories today, implored that I remind you should you get lost in your... studies." For what she has spent the past hour or so doing could hardly be titled as 'studying'.

"Yes, of course. How foolish of me," Cosette mutters, teaching to run a hand through her hair, as she so oft does when at home, where her hair is unbound and free of constraint. She scowls when her fingers find a lack of long tresses, all pulled back into a bun as they are.

"You'll have to excuse me, Monsieur Enjolras. I ought to go visit the people who work for me... though that's a topic to discuss at a later date," she finishes with a winning smile, the warmth of her tone prominently displaying the humour within her words. "There's another topic for your consideration; the rights of the working man and all that."

She retrieves a handful of papers from the table surface, offering them to the young man, this 'Enjolras' that is far too handsome for his own good.

"If you'll excuse me, please?"

"Of course, Mademoiselle. I look forwards to our next meeting."

Valjean most certainly does not.

 

 

 

 

All throughout the factory visit, Cosette is distracted.

Though she refuses to let it prevent her from continuing on with what she considers her duty, Valjean has known her for years, has watched her evolve from the timid little sapling that those foul inn-keepers had raised into a gorgeous rose, the most beautiful young lady he has ever met, both inside and out.

That has never been more obvious than right now, as she speaks quietly with one factory worker after another, offering them the chance to attend the public school she has set up. The public school that now holds evening classes for adults whom wish to learn their numbers and letters.

All the workers there watch his little girl with such awe, such admiration within their eyes.

What exactly it is they adore so much about her, he cannot even begin to pin down. Perhaps it is her genius, a trait that has resulted in these factories being opened and the creation of the jobs they so desperately need. Perhaps it is that Cosette implemented a 'workers rights' document, placed proudly both within the office and by the door. An entitlement to half pay for up to two weeks if they fall sick (with a doctor's note provided to prove it), a promise that health and safety aspects of the factory will constantly be considered and reassessed. It might cost Cosette a bit more money, but in the end, production rate is up, quality is consistent and the workers are happy.

In fact, there is apparently a queue outside the door every Monday morning, full of men looking for work in whatever factory is funded by the Fauchelevents. They're always asking if there's any jobs going, according to the foreman.

Cosette thanks him for the knowledge, a look overtaking her face and Valjean knows he shall have to begin playing with the numbers. They care little for money, Cosette saves just enough for them to live a modest lifestyle (it is, after all, money she has earned and thus hers to do as she will) while the rest is all invested.

It's starting to show.

During schooling hours (nine till three, Monday to Friday), there are significantly less orphans upon the streets; Valjean wonders if anyone else has noticed it yet. He knows Cosette plans a speech regarding both that and the young lad she's taken under her wing, but he tries not to look into what she is doing too much. She has his trust.

He pauses, considering the blond from earlier this day and a frown crosses his face.

Correction, he trusts her with most things. That particular thing he shall have to watch out for.

He'd never witnessed her become so wrapped up within a conversation and though he has tried, Valjean is far from the most learned man in all of Paris.

That boy though, it's obvious beneath that halo of golden curls there is a brain interesting enough to capture Cosette's attention.

Oh, he's seen her look upon men before, assess their appearance, but that has all it has ever been. Aesthetic appeal. Nothing more.

He's not quite sure what God's plan is, throwing this boy who looks far too much like an angel into his darling daughter's path. A young man with a handsomeness that draws Cosette's eye, but a brain that entices her mind enough to keep her eye.

The Lord Almighty must have a reason, but Valjean is hesitant to even begin guessing as to what that it. Nothing happens for the sake of it, everything is part of some greater plan. Just as he can now see it had been his lot in life to find Cosette, to suffer until he was in the perfect position to help the little Mademoiselle. That is his purpose in life, has always been his destined purpose, even though he had not known it in his earlier days.

Because he helped Cosette, and she has gone on to help so many; it has become one long, beautiful chain of kindness. Who is he to break a new link forming upon that? If this golden boy is part of a higher plan, then so be it.

But that does not mean Valjean cannot ensure the young man is worth spending time with his little Cosette, and if he is not, then God would not have given him the thought of mind to drive the boy off were he not supposed to do so.

"I'm done, Papa," Cosette's murmurs, returning to his side, slender arm slipping into his hold, dainty fingers resting upon his forearm.

"Then it is time to return home."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

**March 1830**

 

“Public schools,” Combeferre muses, slipping into a seat with a notebook and pen in hand, inkwell already upon the little desk that comes attached to the chair, “I would never have thought it myself.”.

Courfeyrac nods, already running the edge of his pen back and forth across his lips, eyes focused downwards upon the stage.

“It creates an opportunity for the working man,” Enjolras concludes, fingertips tapping against the top of his thigh, mind already swirling with the concept, “of course the bourgeoisie would not think of such a thing. It puts them in a far more delicate position should those beneath them begin catching up academically. Heavens forbid what the Aristocracy would think of such a thing.”

He had seen a poster upon the campus for this particular talk last week, a report and discussion upon the advantages of schooling the lower class and why the people of Paris should endorse such a thing. It is something Enjolras himself would support wholeheartedly, he needs no discussion to come to this conclusion.

Education is (unfortunately) not a right; it is instead a privilege. But the very thought of it becoming such a thing, of a world in which every person could count and read; how could that be anything other than progress? It is these kinds of ideas that he wishes to see born, to see brought into the world so that France and its people may better themselves constantly, so they may continue to develop into something greater than they once were.

Taking this into consideration, Enjolras finds a strange absence of surprise when it is Cosette Fauchelevent whom walks upon the stage, even as a great deal of his fellow students begin to mull over if they should really be here, if they should listen to a woman speak academically.

It is painfully clear on just who among the student body have paid attention to her work, who she has talked to, or those who have listened to her previously. For they are the ones that remain seated and while they may not afford her the same respect as a male lecturer would be allotted, they nevertheless remain silent for her to begin.

Begin she does, expanding upon just what she has been up to these past few months, on why exactly there had been so few orphans out in a certain sector of Paris, how she has funded and opened a schoolhouse to see children taught their letters and numbers, no matter their background.

Throughout the speech, at least half of the audience get up and leave, shaking their heads, in disagreement or disgust, Enjolras cannot say for sure. More stay than what he would have expected though and he takes careful note of their faces. If they are perchance open to a concept of progress such a this, he should probably start his own speeches where they will hear him, will hear the truth in his words.

“No wonder we’ve seen so little of Gavroche, that little rascal,” Courfeyrac chuckles at the young boy joins Cosette on stage, her ‘in depth case study’, as she terms it.

It had never even crossed Enjolras’ mind to consider if the boy knew how to read, or if he wished to learn. Nonetheless, he will strive to take such things into consideration from here on out, to not make assumptions of others solely based from his own experiences.

Just because it is difficult to imagine himself incapable of reading by ten years of age.

It is with ideas swirling fast inside his mind that Enjolras sits and listens to Cosette’s presentation, cataloguing anything and everything of interest the little slip of a girl can come out with.

How she uses passages from the bible, the holy book that so many bourgeoisie abide by, to guilt a person into wanting to fund further schoolhouses. Talks of the beggar on the road, of being purposefully ignorant and not carrying out God’s will to help the people who need it. That if they proclaim they are no ignorant to the plight of the people, then they must be the evil that set upon the one in need, for if they are not helping, then they are certainly not a good Samaritan.

She implores them to aid her in her ‘charity work’, her academic researching; she appeals in anyway she can to gain aid, to entice those over to her side while all the while backing up her words with cold hard facts, evidence that can only be dismissed with more research.

Enjolras is of the opinion any research conducted would have to be tampered with in order to contradict Cosette’s findings. She’s just too smart to leave such a gaping soft-spot in her appeal.

Before he knows it, she has finished, two hours having past and having lost just over half of her audience. But there are those who have stayed, all of the lecturers have remained, the ones that deigned to come to this presentation.

They applaud at the end, some more enthusiastically that others; a sound of promise. Of progress.

 

 

 

They remain seated as others begin filtering out, Gavroche instantly leaping up the stairs to come and join them, many a student leaning out of the way now that they know his status as a gamin (former gamin?). It makes his approach all the easier though, the ten-year-old skidding to a halt in order to grin up at the three of them.

“Well? Did’ya like Cosette’s rally?”

“I hardly think it classes as a rally, little Gavroche,” Courfeyrac mutters, grinning as he ruffles the boy’s hair with a sure, steady hand.

“Hey, I can read now. Best not be putting too much of your sap into ya love letters, Courfeyrac.”

He laughs, dancing out the way of Courfeyrac’s playful swat, hand stashed in the pockets of his trousers. Come to think of it, Gavroche’s clothes have been far cleaner and less worn than ever before; it’s clear to see why now.

“Did you enjoy it? Learning to read and write?” Enjolras asks, leaning back against the wooden back of his former chair, one hand resting upon the ‘table’ to keep his balance.

“It were boring at first, but now that I can read the secrets you guys are passing around, it’s pretty interesting.” Gavroche grins, smoothing his hair back down, though it still remains a ghost of the neatness it’d been while on stage.

“Useful is the word you’re supposed to use, Gavroche. Useful. These are tools for life, not a neat little parlour trick.”

Cosette pinches the tip of Gavroche’s nose for a second, long enough that the boy tries playfully pushing her hand away, the both of them grinning with an easy camaraderie that can only come from a great deal of time spent in one another’s company.

Is that what it means, to be a ‘genius’? To be capable of finding common ground with a stranger, upon which a structure of friendship can be built? Enjolras is capable of inspiring the masses, but he can claim he share few warm relations as what Cosette appears to do.

She is more like Courfeyrac in that way, friendly and open-minded.

Something he should consider more; while he believes well and truly in the rights of the working class, he has never considered how the oppression of women is rampant within his beloved country. Had not even considered that they were exposed to subjugation also.

Not until he’d met a woman who seems to have clawed her way up and out of that, one that keeps trying to reach out and grasp progress, even as so many walk away from aiding her.

“Mademoiselle Cosette?”

Her attention is upon him instantly, eyelashes dark even in the bright light of the lecture theatre.

“Combeferre, Courfeyrac and I often meet with a collection of like-minded others in order to discuss France’s potential for progression. Would you care to attend the next one? I am sure Gavroche could show you the way.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, like, don't even have the words. This was not suppose to come out this long. It wasn't suppose to sprawl as it has done.  
> I just. Urgh.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

 

**April 1830**

 

 

 

 

The first meeting Cosette attends, rain is pouring down from the heavens upon the dirt-laced streets of Paris.

She has an umbrella up, one designed personally by her own hand for maximum efficiency, Gavroche holding tight to her arm as they walk the streets of Paris.

She knows Valjean is around, the protective papa as always, but right now she's much more interested in getting to her destination. It is a sector of Paris she has never been in before, though there are a fair few of those. Always too busy, lost in her headspace, in the metal between her hands, the pen between her fingers.

"It's a cafe," Gavroche explains, turning big eyes on her when she hums an acknowledgement, "nothin' posh, but it is where they meet up. It's warm there, kinda like ou- your house."

Eyebrows puckering at the abrupt change of word, Cosette comes to a halt by the door, twisting her umbrella until it's all retracted back in, Gavroche pushing open the door in the meantime. Valjean is there, allowing her to enter first as he lowers his own umbrella.

"I shall remain in the background, Cosette."

"Right. Thank you for letting me come, Papa."

The smile he gives her is bittersweet and she wonders what Valjean sees as he looks upon her. Her mother, the woman he so rarely spoke of? The mother who he had refused to describe the death of, but clearly felt some form of responsibility for?

Chewing on the tender flesh of her inner cheek, Cosette lays her umbrella against the side of the wall, right by the door.

There are two young waitresses scuttling around the place, an elderly woman stood behind the bar who eyes Cosette critically.

Gavroche's grip on her arm is loose, present but soft; he's eager to get involved.

Sucking in a deep breath (and thanking happenstance that she ended up in an era where there corset was nothing more than support for the breasts), Cosette approaches the counter of the bar with a smile on her face and a gamin on her arm.

"What can I get for you, Mademoiselle?"

"Oh, er, can I get the house wine please? And whatever watered-down beverage you've got for Gavroche as well?"

The older woman hums, looking between Cosette and Gavroche, lips pursed as one of the waitresses goes about procuring her order.

Cosette dips her hands into the pocket of her dress, retrieving her coin purse.

"Is it the backroom where Enjolras and his fellows meet?"

To say the woman stiffens up would be an understatement, eyes turning on her with a frown that shows her teeth.

"He won't accept your proposal, _Mademoiselle_ ," she mocks, head shaking from side to side, as if she hasn't utterly blindsided Cosette.

Who said anything about a proposal? The only proposals she has ever offered Enjolras is the thoughts she puts forwards on human nature and, his favourite topic, revolution. Though it's fair enough that she thinks such a thing is her intentions; Cosette is not blind. Enjolras is beautiful, far more than any man has the right to be. The face of an angel, taken right from the chapel ceiling, heavenly to look upon but ultimately, made from stone and always out of reach. Physically she cannot attain those lofty heights. But her voice, her thoughts can bounce through the open air to reach that gorgeous visage.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent."

Twisting, Cosette grins as her eyes land upon Combeferre.

"Enjolras said he had extended an invitation; it is a pleasure to see you accepted."

"I think the pleasure will be all mine, Monsieur."

 

 

 

Cosette spends the meeting sat at the back, out of the way and against the wall that candlelight counts quite seem to cross completely. On the adjacent wall, a sprawling map of France under the republic is pinned, leading one to wonder just how often the boys frequent this place.

Observing the meeting is much like looking upon the solar system. Enjolras (aptly nicknamed Apollo by his fellows) is the perfect representation of the sun. Burning so brightly, so passionately, but they never get too close. They draw on his energy, make it their own, let it fuel them; they remain in a set orbit, twisting around Enjolras' presence, their very being influenced by him.

It's never been more evident than right now, how they hang on his every word, pipe up with ideas and questions of their own. How eager they appear for the new France that Enjolras insists is within their grasp. Liberty, freedom, it all rings clear in every word Enjolras speaks.

She can understand why his speeches get their blood pumping; her own is boiling. It's almost as if she's suddenly hyper aware of every vein and artery within her body carrying the lifeblood around, the ease of such a process she has taken for granted.

There are hundreds, thousands of men out there in Paris who have weaker hearts, beaten down by both physical and emotional factors. Receiving so little energy for they have no food to consume to fuel themselves, the constant dejection of being trapped in a never-ending cycle.

Perhaps Enjolras could awaken the lot of them, could inspire those hearts to beat a bit faster, work a bit stronger. Could implore those minds to fight, fight for all the rights and ideals he has locked within his head.

All that cold hard logic, a marble statue walking among the living; Apollo Belvedere, fresh for the vanquishing of his first foe and eager to notch another arrow for the next.

Cosette sits and she listens and she learns.

 

 

 

Despite having extended a personal invite, Enjolras does not approach her at the end of his big speech, leaving Cosette to make her way over to him as the Friends of the ABC's begin to socialise freely with one another.

The drinks flow, having previously been dammed behind Grantaire. The man must have enough alcohol in him to be classified as a lake; every time she's glanced in his direction he's been in the process of downing a bottle. His alcohol tolerance (and his chances of liver disease) must be insane.

Plucking up the half-finished glass of wine, Cosette saunters across the room towards Enjolras, fairly confident in the company she currently keeps. They're all students and, most tellingly, all part of Enjolras and Combeferre's group. Men of ideals and good will. She will not have to worry about robbery or rape or death among them.

She doesn't recognise the man currently speaking with Enjolras, but that is no surprise. She only knows four of the men present here, and even then, two of those are people she met in passing.

As she comes to a halt beside him, Cosette swirls the last of the wine in her glass, the taste nowhere as refined as what she is used to. But it’s got a bitter sharpness to it, something that sits as finely upon her palate as the current conditions of Paris’ poor sits fine within her stomach.

That is to say, very far from fine indeed.

“Mademoiselle Fauchelevent.”

Enjolras greets her with a respectable dip of his head, a gesture she happily returns.

“Monsieur Enjolras. Your speech there was exceptional. I have made some notes on points and ideas I would be willing to discuss at a more agreeable time, if you’re amiable to such a thing?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“So, when are you going to marry her?”

The look upon Enjolras’ face is of the kind that could freeze fire, a chilling cold that sheers down Combeferre’s spine with nought but a glancing blow.

Grantaire, the drunkard, doesn’t even shiver.

“Marry who.” Enjolras carefully pronunciates, each syllable voiced painfully slow and clear enough it can be heard even through the fog of Grantaire’s most recent bottle.

Combeferre swallows once, saliva scratching at the innards of his throat with the sudden change in atmosphere.

Grantaire’s words have come about much as a lightning bolt, striking with little warning other than the general cover of grey clouds. Though their intoxicated friend is far from comparable to Zeus, he has voiced what they have all been considering, the thoughts that have created a blanket overcast of their group ever since Mademoiselle Fauchelevent had swept into the café, having left a mere ten minutes prior to this… sure to be explosive discussion.

The matter of fact is that Enjolras is twenty-three years old, the only son of a rich middle class (at the very top of their class bracket in truth) family, and he spends a fair amount of time with the lovely Mademoiselle.

Despite their focus on improving the rights of the working man they do like to gossip; it can be assumed that Enjolras would spend time with such a little lady for one reason only, no matter how they have all taken note of his… uncommon lack of interest in the fairer sex.

Yes, she’s a little young, but in the face of her vast intellect, Combeferre oft forgets she is eight years Enjolras’ junior, a fire still growing, still being stoked.  

He's not the only one guilty of that either; it is hard to take the lit match that meets the barrel of gunpowder that is Enjolras head on in debates, and categorise her with all the other... vapid girls he knows. It's not just something- there's not a single special thing about Cosette. She is instead special in her entirety, no sole trait to lord above others of her gender. She plays upon a different board game altogether, chess among a vertible flood of checkerboards.

It's no wonder she enticed Enjolras in so easily, so willing to discuss revolution and all other strange and incredible ideas.

He knows his friend is deep within his beliefs, knows that Enjolras has never waded in the shallows. The cause is his ocean and within that expanse, Enjolras is a lone flagship, drawing them all in to form his armada.

The only question is, how long until they looking upon the cresting sun and find war in its place? Combeferre had though it would be soon, had been able to taste its approach upon the wind.

But then Cosette had barrelled into the world of Les Amis, had buffered the sails until Combeferre is no longer sure of north from south.

"Why, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, of course!"

Grantaire's proud slur tears Combeferre back into reality, finding the drunkard half hunched over the table to continue staring at Enjolras, one hand supporting his unsteady head.

"Ya could make some terrifying little sprogs, chanting 'bout Revolution or change or maybe they'll even build somethin' clever enough to put us on the moon! What'd'ya think 'bout that, huh?"

Jabbing the bottle in Enjolras' direction, Grantaire giggles, the final damming evidence that he is well and truly three sheets to the wind. As if his determination to pick a fight with Enjolras wasn't a clear enough indicator.

Combeferre can only continue to watch, horrified awe in his stomach, as Grantaire proceeds to dig himself a deeper and deeper grave. With the blackening of Enjolras' mood, it might very well end up a mass grave.

"You go on an' on about your progress and change, but you're chasin' after 'er, aren't ya? Not that I can blame ya, what with 'er-"

The sound of a pistol going off is accompanied only by the shattering of Grantaire's bottle, his chosen poison hitting the floor a mere second later.

In the terrified silence, Enjolras calmly placed his pistol upon the table-top, meeting the suddenly-near-sober Grantaire's startled gaze.

"I think, Grantaire, you have had quite enough to drink. Mademoiselle Fauchelevent and I are academic peers, nothing more."

Well... well, Combeferre highly doubts he'll be making a comment on that kettle of fish anytime soon if this is the reaction he can expect.

 

 

In truth, it’s a relief to return to his apartment later that day; none of them had dared to breathe too loudly after that little display.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**May 1830**

 

 

 

 

 

 

May brings the promising warmth of summer, a tender kiss of the heat to come. It’s in the wind, weaving through his hair, brushing against his skin, ruffling the excess material of his sleeves.

There are his fellow students (all studying various aspect of law) crowded around and talking animatedly among one another; even Marius, the odd duck, is among them.

There’s no desire to go and join in with their talk, with their discussion on how the law is weighted, a loaded deck of cards accessible only to the rich and wealthy. It’s-

“-just listen to me!”

Cosette Fauchelevent.

Perking up at the fierce tone, Enjolras quickens his pace, rounded the utmost northern building to find the source.

The young woman is standing with her hands balled tight, knuckles bone-chillingly white, a stark contrast to the deep red fluster of her cheeks.

Her… opponent is not a person Enjolras recognises by face alone, but the cut of his suit and presence of an armed escort is indicator enough that the man is important; that he’s most probably a politician. Like so many others, he stares down at Cosette with the same casual disregard as all those who do not know her, dismissing her as if she has no right, no intellect with which to put her ideas forth, to present them in a coherent, reasonable manner. Already he has decided that she is nothing more than any of the other women that parade around Paris.

He’s so incredibly wrong; it’s a method of dehumanisation, stripping a person of their identity and slotting them into a crowd. Oh, this is a woman addressing me. Just a silly, stupid woman.

How is that so different from judging a poor man, a man who’s of the working class, who belongs with the collective. Branding a crowd nothing more than a mass of hungry stomachs and greedy hands. Enjolras can see it in the old man’s eyes; ‘what is this woman doing away from her herd? Why has she dared to approach me as if she has any right to speak?’.

As his legs eat up the distance, it is not the near-summer sun that heats Enjolras’ blood.

He gets there just in time for the man to scoff, weighing up Enjolras as if he is in any way responsible for Cosette Fauchelevent at all.

“I suggest you keep your-” a pause, as wrinkle-framed eyes dart down to their left hands, to the ring fingers that are bared and free of adornment, “-‘companion’ under control, Monsieur.”

Cosette’s jaw clenched only half as hard as her hands do, and he wonders how this fool can look upon her and see nothing of worth, how he cannot spot the flash of teeth and the true grit of ambition she bares so freely.

“His companion?” she repeats furiously, fingers digging into the excess material of her dress, the fine fabric crumbling like cheap dough beneath her anger.

It’s a fruitless attempt to prompt an apology though; the fool has already turned away from them, departing from the university grounds to the nearest street.

Cosette watches with the same burning anger Enjolras so often finds his stomach churning with. It’s in her eyes; were it not for them, her still features would not give a sole clue to her mounting sense of injustice. Righteous injustice.

“I have to stand here,” she breathes, eyes never leaving the retreating figure, “stand here and allow them to dismiss me as they saunter off into automobiles I built, as they grow fat from inventions I created to make life easier for all.”

Yes, Enjolras imagines such a thing would make one quite bitter. What words can he offers the lady as recompense? His plight, it is not just for the working man anymore. It is for the working class, for the ladies of the bourgeoisie class whom are so often overlooked, seen as nothing more than broodmares, property to be claimed in the name of man. Why would women be any lesser than them?

"I just don't understand why I bother sometimes," Cosette confesses, a sinner before a saint, disbeliever before the devote. "Why do I bother when they don't appreciate it? When they don't even think to treat me as a conscious human being capable of significant thought?"

"It's thankless work," he agrees, seating himself upon the wall, "but if no one does it, if everyone thought like that, then we would never see progress."

Cosette’s eyes flash, staring up at him and there’s a near dejection there, an expression he has never witnessed upon her face and has no desire to ever witness again.

The words slip from his mouth before he can think to stop them, to temper himself in the face of Cosette’s potentially fragile mental state.

“Do you still believe that true progress can ever occur without a revolution?”  

“…no.”

It’s a quiet whisper, barely audible, but as with any form of discontent with the state, Enjolras picks up on it right away.

“Would you be willing to talk further on this?”

“Do you really think I’m in the right frame of mind for a discussion right now?” Cosette grumbles, arms folding across her chest, dress now free of the hands that’d held it so tightly. There’s still marks, creases in the otherwise pristine fabric that remains the only physical evidence of her anger.

“Is that not the best time to speak? When our thoughts and feelings are raw, when the concept of injustice is simmering ever close to the surface?”

 

 

 

 

 

They head to library, sitting in companionable silence. Their table is free; the student body has diminished in the face of the harvest season’s steady approach, young and able men heading home to aid wherever they can. Not that bourgeoisie men would be doing the physical work of course; they would instead be managing, ensuring the working class are completing their jobs. Ensuring the workers know their place.

There’s a sharp tap as pen meets table, the utensil weaving between clever fingers.

Cosette does not hold her pen correctly. It draws Enjolras' eyes for a moment. Until another 'point of interest' forcibly barges into his life, as if they are not clearly set up for some form of academic discussion.

"Ah, Enjolras. How are you today?"

He follows along with the necessary pleasantries, taking note of Cosette's soft, near amused snort (a stark difference to her temperament mere minutes ago) as Lumbran turns to the visually similar woman on his arm.

"And this is my sister, Rosine."

Why do they always insist upon flaunting their sisters or cousins to him?

From the corner of his eye, Enjolras notes that Cosette's shoulders are shaking.

Lumbran’s sister is a bird-like creature, her features the kind that would grace a Joseph-Marie Vien painting. About as delicate as a painting too; Enjolras wouldn’t even need to put forth a true effort to tear through this woman as surely as he would tear through canvas.

It is not words he offers the woman who smiles so demurely at him; instead he offers her a glance that showcases exactly what he sees in her, what he considers her to be.

A distraction, a waste of his time. A creature not worthy of his attention.

Either it is a particularly cutting glare or the sister (the name he has already forgotten, it is not something he shall need to refer to in the future, after all) is made of canvas weaker than the norm.

Tears spring to her eyes, gripping closer to Lumbran’s arm. Lumbran who tries to return his irritated look. But he cannot understand the true depths of Enjolras’ annoyance for the interruption he has brought. Time wasted, time that could be better spent on thoughts of the revolution, time he could have spent further enticing Cosette to his way of thinking.

“We’ll leave you to your little… oddity, Enjolras.” He rather gets the feeling that Lumbran shall not be bothering him again in the future; a pleasant outcome at last. Not a total waste of time then.

Though by ‘oddity’, he must surely be referring to Cosette.

The young woman has a hand to her mouth, rosy cheeks rounded with humour as she watches the duo depart.

"You're really swimming in it, aren't you?" Her lips, (the natural pale pink skin untainted by the red stain of lipstick) are twisted up into an amused smile, a warmth sweeping her from voice. Enjolras sends her the same glare that had Lumbran’s dear sister running, but it prompts laughter from Cosette.

“They’re always doing this,” he finally discloses; he’ll quickly round off this current topic so that they may begin unpacking the far more favourable discussion of revolution and progression.

"They're trying to see if any of those female relatives are capable of catching your eye. They must consider you a good prospect."

"Good prospect," Enjolras drawls in irritation, already well aware that she speaks of marriage.

Cosette huffs; in her distraction with teasing him, she has dropped ink from her unattended pen upon her notes, masking three words entirely.

 "You're young, handsome and rich," Cosette points out, quirking her lips into a parody of a smile; it's twinged with an uncharacteristic bitterness. "you make a good prospect for any woman; it’s no wonder they’re trying to shove their sisters at you.”

"I have no desire to marry," Enjolras murmurs, returning to his blank notes.

He doesn't have time to waste on the ritual that is married life, nor does he desire the... comfort of a woman in his life. He has France, has his beloved country to save. A woman would expect him to put her before everything else and, and that is not something Enjolras is capable of.

France shall always come before any other priority, before a wife, before his personal morals, before his own life. If he must kill a man to drive France forwards into a new age of enlightenment, then so be it. If it comes to it and he must die for the cause, his life is something he shall gladly lay down without hesitation.

“Yeah, well some of us don’t get that option, Enjolras.” Cosette’s bitter tone snipes through the air swiftly, but she ploughs on without giving him a chance to truly process her words. “Anyway, I believe we have more important things to be talking about.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soft summer sun catches Enjolras' golden curls; has them gleaming molten in its light. With his high brow, sharp cheekbones and cutting eyes; he looks wonderful. Beautiful.

She can see why so many women try their luck, despite Enjolras' reputation for brutal rejections. And they are brutal rejections; she’d seen the glare he’d offered that lady last week; it’d been more than cutting. It’d been severe, exceptionally harsh and certainly not the kind of look a man is supposed to offer a woman.

Perhaps that is why the two of them mesh so well together; Enjolras offers no sugar-coated words, no softened blows just because she is a woman. It is the same kind of attitude he offers every woman he comes across; as if there is no such thing as the fairer sex, just a sex that has less to offer the world than men. He treats a person based on their abilities, on their skills and knowledge and their depth as a person.

Unfortunately, society has dictated that women of gentle, submissive demeaners are what is desired, so that is what most have become.

Mayhap that is why when he turned his glare upon her, all Cosette had been able to do was snicker.

His disdain with the female species is far outweighed by his desire to talk to her on all things revolution, on the progression of their promising country.

Shifting her feet about, Cosette aches for a society where she could happily kick off her boots and sink her bare toes into the grass she sits upon. As things are, she can’t risk flashing her ankles (utterly absurd) and so must leave her boots on and allow her feet to cook in their boots.

They are all sitting on the university's second most prized lawn, Cosette's fingers threading through the multitude of freshly picked stems as the boys pour over their notes.

As actual students, the Amis all have exams approaching at the end of the month; Cosette does not. She's not a student, not a lecturer, she's just... attached to the university, though not officially. Perhaps that is something to look into.

Rubbing at the red rose petals, Cosette smooths out the last stem of the flower crown, passing it back and forth between her fingers.

Then she drops its light weight on Enjolras head.

Grantaire, already spotting a woven daisy circlet, grins.

"Revolutionary red; good choice."

The look Enjolras sends her is on a similar level of disapproval as Grantaire so often gets with that well-rehearsed 'put the bottle down'. It has Cosette’s lips twisting upwards in a smile before she ever so begrudgingly returns to her papers, a grimace upon her face.

“Struggling with a new invention, Mademoiselle?”

Eyes rolling skywards, Cosette shoots Grantaire a scowl.

Just out of hearing distance but clearly still in sight, Valjean offers her a concerned look, one Cosette rapidly waves away with a gloved hand. God, what she wouldn’t give to be able to strip off half these layers. Even then, she wears her lightest dress, tiptoeing upon the edge of propriety with the lesser amount of fabric, even if it does cover everything of importance.

“Hardly. It’s not another handful of marriage proposals. Seeing as I’ve made so much money off of these inventions, these things keep flooding in for the dowry they think I’ll come with.”

“You won’t come with a dowry then?” Enjolras asks, his voice more curious than she’d have expected of him. A quick glance at his face proves the man these people have christened with a god’s name is not interested in the state of her dowry, but rather were that money is going if not to her future husband.

“I’m investing it all, under my… grandfather’s name of course,” because no man would entrust the money thrown his way by a young woman, “to open new factories and shortly, another public school.”

“To help the working class,” Enjolras concludes, a smile brightening his face and Cosette’s breath catches in her throat.

Objectively she’s always known he’s attractive; every so often the sun or the candlelight will catch his face and send it into sharp relief, highlighting all those so handsome features. But this… he is nothing short of Adonis right now; that smile bringing forth beauty that would effortlessly attract the attention of multiple gods.

She should look away, should stop staring, it’s not polite.

It takes far more effort than it should to return her gaze to the papers in her hand, not that Enjolras appears to have noticed. He’s returned to his conversation with Combeferre, that smile gone now, but Cosette can still picture it, the image burned into her mind, leaving her blind to whatever else had been happening in the background during that moment.

Apollo, he’s aptly named; it had been like looking upon the sun, leaving nothing but bright spots searing her retinas.

When she looks up, Courfeyrac is staring back at her with open surprise, his eyes darting to Enjolras before they return questioningly to her.

Cosette swallows hard, looking away as her shoulders shrug. What is there to say? That Enjolras is the most open-minded man she knows? That she finds his intellect nearly as attractive as his appearance, if not more so? That within him she can see opportunity that she had otherwise not perceived herself as capable of achieving?

It’s true that some women in this time period do go on to become spinsters… but Cosette has never dreamed of a life alone. She knows herself well enough to recognise that she longs for companionship, for a person to rely upon and to be relied upon in turn.

“Why don’t you just marry one us these fools then, Mademoiselle?” Grantaire grunts, pulling a flask free of his waistband to take a bountiful swing from; Cosette highly doubts it’s water in there. “I’m sure they’ll treat you right.”

He grins, wiggling his eyebrows and Cosette smiles back even if it feels like as fragile as porcelain.

“I have considered it,” Cosette confesses, instantly stealing the entirety of the group’s attention, much to Enjolras’ visible annoyance.

The look he shoots at her isn’t the same one he offers the sister of what’s-his-face, but it’s a clear display of his irritation.

It’s still preferable to the way Marius perks up ever so slightly in the background. He’s not really a key-component of the group, more situated upon the fringes, but he’s still present. He still wears one of Enjolras’ rosettes. He still agrees with all their ideals. It’s just… he doesn’t appear to see her, just her outwards appearance. Marius has made no move to otherwise get to know her, and while something is tickling in the back of her mind, Cosette brushes it off as another moment of inexplicable dejavu.

“Oh. And how have you weighed us all up then?” Courfeyrac asks with a grin, looking quite intrigued by the sudden topic of choice.

Running a hand down the side of her face, Cosette removes the chain of white roses that’ve been sat atop her head, steadily plucking one flowerhead free of its petals.

“Well I went by what I know of your characters, of course. Then by who I get along with the best, and most importantly, who wouldn’t try to call my inventions and experiments to a halt.”

All the boys hum, Enjolras rolling his eyes skywards and looking particularly uninterested, evidently wanting to return to their previous discussion. Perhaps that’s what pushes her into saying it, what has the words slipping from her lips, joking as they are.

“Ever thought about getting married, Enjolras?”

All the other Amis laugh, hooting and Grantaire elbows the blond in question with a sly grin, a gesture that it met with obvious contempt on Enjolras’ side.

She’d almost feel bad for bringing it up, if it weren’t for the fact that the idea takes root in her brain, that it all snaps into place with a brutal efficiency that she’d never have predicted otherwise.

Enjolras enthuses over her explorations of human behaviour, he agrees with her inventions and where she invests the money she makes from them. She cannot think of another man who would do such a thing as sincerely as he.

The only issue with all of this is that Enjolras so clearly does not have any desire to marry whatsoever. She has never seen him so much as look at another woman, not beyond a recognition of what class bracket they belong to.

Is she really considering this? Pursuing Enjolras with the intent of marriage? Certainly, pursue is the right word to use in this case, for she’ll never get anywhere without any kind of pursuit from her side of things. Is she truly considering this? It would seem so.

Tilting her head to a side again, Cosette sized Enjolras up, pursing her lips.

Enjolras is a being of logic, he doesn’t run on emotions, not like the rest of the population. The marble man She cannot quite remember who dubbed him with that particular title, but it’s apt in its description. But even marble, when put under enough pressure, can crack. Even marble, under the right conditions, can erode. She’ll be fighting logic with logic, because that’s the only thing the leader of the Amis understands.

And hell, what’s the worst he can do? Tell her off for attempting to stand up for herself, for chasing after what she wants in life? A companion who understands her, who’s reasonably open minded? The kind of person that’s been driven to near extinction in this dog-eat-dog world; that’s what she wants.

Looking upon Enjolras, Cosette’s jaw tightens.

There’s no harm in trying, after all.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter length is going down to 5,000 words because otherwise you guys'll be waiting forever for the next one.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

**September 1830**

 

 

 

 

Cosette Fauchelevent is watching Enjolras.

Normally Combeferre wouldn't notice this too much, only... Grantaire pointed it out. Grantaire of all people, the drunkard among them, was the one to point it out.

Now that's he looking, Combeferre can see that the Mademoiselle's watching isn't so much ‘watching’ as it is observing. Analysing.

Not so much a fox stalking a rabbit, more a politician stalking an opponent. Looking for an opening with which to level a cold, analytical strike.

Honestly, it's a bit worrying.

Enjolras and Mademoiselle Cosette's views aline fantastically, so why she's regarding Apollo like that, he has no idea.

But it sure is unsettling.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

"Mademoiselle."

Enjolras doesn't question her presence, but it is a very near thing. It is not as if he has been expecting to find Cosette Fauchelevent waiting for him outside of the lecture theatre.

It is the start of a new academic year, the warmth of summer steadily migrating in the face of winter's approaching march.

Cosette has prepared as such, some form of jacket draped over her shoulders, made of wool. Knitwear with a delicate pattern of light pink intertwining with cream. Among their darker colours, she sticks out terribly. She does, however, appear quite warm.

"Monsieur Enjolras," Cosette greets, a shallow dip of her head. He does not even bother to glance around for her grandfather (though why she occasionally addresses him as 'Papa' is a question that certainly holds his curiosity), aware the hulking figure shall be lurking somewhere nearby.

Instead, he allows Cosette his attentions; it is not as if he had much more planned with his day, barring tonight's meeting of course.

"Could I perhaps interest you in a discussion regarding the Parliament of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, along with their straining Poor Laws, Monsieur?"

Britain? He has not truly considered their neighbour across the channel before. Or rather, not with any significant depth; only ever comparing their political climate to France. Perhaps he should; they do, after all, have a legislative body that, if not entirely removed from the crown, has a far from insignificant sovereignty regarding English laws.

Before Enjolras can offer up his affirmative, a shoulder knocks against his own, succeeding in jostling his person into a near collision with the petite Cosette.

Lumbran offers him a snide sneer as he saunters past them, whispering something to his equally swinish cohort and they both chuckle.

Enjolras, however, does not miss the way said cohort's eyes lingers upon the jewels around Cosette's neck, how the fool considers Enjolras' fellow believer of forethought and progression with greedy intentions. It forcibly stokes the memory of Cosette's bitter comments upon marriage and her not so positive chances of avoiding such a fate.

"I'll take that as a yes," Cosette mutters, slipping her hand around the crook of his elbow before he can think to protest the contact. Her fingers express a gentle squeeze against the muscles of his forearm, a sensation that forcibly returns Enjolras back to the present, away from Lumbran recent sneers and Cosette's past bemoans.

"The library, Monsieur?"

Uncomfortably reminded that it is not just another advocate of advancement upon his arm, but a woman whose company he currently keeps, he recalls Grantaire's assumptions; just how many of those within the university have seen himself and Cosette together and assumed them courting? How many potential suitors has his presence vanquished? Does Cosette welcome such an effect, or would it displease her? She's far too intelligent a woman to not notice the correlation of his presence as the probably not insignificant drop in the number of suits she's presented with.

Ultimately, she must seek the company of himself and the members of Les Amis out so oft to act as a dam against the flood of would-be suitors.

Mystery solved, Enjolras strides down the corridor, absently noting how Cosette's steps quicken to keep to his purposeful pace.

It is the last he wishes to think upon it for the day.

 

 

 

 

Somehow though, their conversation is led astray. By some twisted mechanism of fate, they have once again found the droll topic of matrimony the currency with which they speak. It is perhaps the first time he has declared to never marry (the undertone heavy; a silent promise to never fall before a woman's much whispered of cogent charms) and found not pity or disbelief, but a calm acceptance in his company.

"Is falling for a woman's charms and marriage not two separate things entirely though? Otherwise we would not have the issue of mistresses and fallen women," she sneers the final two words, a grimace settling upon his face and Enjolras almost, almost, wishes Marius was here.

This expression would in the very least prove Cosette is far from the beautiful angel the younger student proclaims her to be, that she is just as human as the rest. Perhaps that would finally get that lovestruck fool to shut up about her and get on with helping towards a better France.

Enjolras is already in contact with some less than pleased soldiers, now knows where to acquire better guns, knows which gunmaker to approach. A better use for his parents' money, Enjolras cannot imagine. But the opportunity for revolution is not yet ripe. Even so, he can be patient.

"I'm not blind to all my faults, Enjolras," Cosette continues, barrelling onwards with her topic despite undoubtedly knowing it holds little of his attention. If she does not finish speaking soon, he'll have to excuse himself from her company, postpone their discussion until she's gotten whatever this is off her chest. While reasonably interesting to hear of society through the eyes of a woman, this is not the content he was expecting their conversation to include.

"I'm aware I look down upon other women. I can't help it. I'm self-aware enough to recognise the chances of meeting another woman I can bond with are incredibly low, hence why I've reached out to yourself and the Amis. The first group of men I've met that are perhaps forwards thinking enough to allow me into their fold, even if only on the outskirts... I fear in my need for intellectual conversation, my standards have dropped significantly."

Cosette offers a small smile as she finishes her words, her lips tainted with a near bitter twist. Make no mistake, no matter how she strives for progress, that does not detract from how very disappointed (and how very angry) she is at the state of the world and its treatment towards women. It's clear in the thin lines upon her brow, the ones that appear only as her eyebrows drop low to rest heavy above her eyes.

"I'm an oddity and well aware of it. All these other women that have had access to some form of education, they've also been conditioned to believe themselves below men, that they should be thankful for their good fortune to be born to those high-class families and question the world no more. And I am expected to fit into this mould, marry a man and then just, just settle down. Are you sure you don't want to marry?"

Enjolras jolts at the abrupt question and he's not the only one. Monsieur Fauchelevent startles also, near tearing his papers in half.

"I am positive, Cosette," Enjolras snaps out, gracing her with the same glare that Lambran's sister received.

This time it works upon her; Cosette flinching back even as her jaw muscles work, teeth undoubtedly gritting together.

It is however, to Enjolras' dismay, not the look of defeat.

The low "I see," that Cosette mutters sounds far too much like a promise than a simple statement.

It's discomforting.

But she at last decides to focus on the topic at hand and for that, Enjolras is thankful. In the very least, the only woman in his acquaintance can understand the necessity of logic overruling emotion, that much is clear.

 

 

 

 

**October 1830**

 

 

 

  
It's not as if she's been subtle in her intentions. She's dropped hint after hint (well, for the early 19th century that is) but Enjolras still hasn't quite clicked on.

It's to the point Cosette is near out of options. How is she supposed to get though that halo of golden hair? How else is she supposed to open those ridiculously blue eyes to the reality?

It is true that Enjolras can easily get by in life without her; she is no necessity and she's reasonably certain Enjolras is (despite his incredible charisma and devotion to the cause) an introvert. He's a shining beacon of brilliance; yet he struggles to connect with the common man. She's never seen him show open affection as others so oft do. Well, often in comparison to the lauded Apollo of Les Amis. There just seems to be no softness to him, hard as stone... a man of marble.

But Cosette shall press on, if anything, she shall force her way into Enjolras' considerations through sheer willpower alone.

The vast majority of women here may be incapable of seeing outside of the set expectations for them (through no fault of their own; it is walls built to contain them, walls they have seen all their lives and just assumed the edge of their world), but Cosette is not.

Her walls are clear, glass in every sense of the word and she just needs a point, a diamond that will allow her sharp tip to break through.

Enjolras is that glass; he's what she needs to break in order to get out of society's box, to never be entrapped again.

Is she doing this because she loves him? No.

His company is enjoyable, his conversation thought provoking, his face pleasant. But it's the opportunity, the promise of progress he represents that has Cosette set in her goal.

In this day and age, marriage is far from a romantic happy ever after. More a marriage of concepts and alliances, a binding of family and money.

Between herself and Enjolras, there is a theoretical agreement on the state of France and its stunted potential for progress; a match between them would be a good one.

She just needs to make him see that. His blatant ignorance (purposeful or not) of her advances towards him is a significant hurdle to overcome...

Perhaps it is time to consider that 21st century thinking once again. She shall have to be a little more forwards from here on out.

 

 

 

 

 

**November1830**

 

 

 

  
Enjolras gasps, hands spread wide on the table top as his eyes snap to the only possible source.

Cosette sits across from him, smile wry despite her near perfect expression of innocence.

As if her foot had not just run up the length of his shin.

Combeferre is still talking and Enjolras is very much aware of Monsieur Fauchelevent's presence right now, more so than he has ever been before.

The tip of Cosette's foot (she's not wearing a shoe, has to have taken it off because her toes are curling into the material of his pants) presses against the edge of his shin, tracing up his inner calf now and Enjolras' snaps his leg back in shock. It slams against the table and he grimaces, pain surging up the limb.

That damned smile is still irritatingly present.

"Enjolras?"

"Forgive me, Combeferre. A simple miscalculation."

"Everyone has their off days," Cosette agrees as if she isn't solely responsible for his sudden retreat.

It is only through sheer force of will that he doesn't jump out of his skin when Cosette's toes brush against his knee next.

This is, this is so incredibly far from proper behaviour he doesn't have the slightest idea on how to react.

He should be focused, should be capable of following along to Combeferre's thoughts on the king and current monarchy, but he cannot do that when Cosette's toes are starting to circle higher than his knee.

Even more irritating, she seems utterly engrossed within Combeferre's speech, nodding along and offering her opinions on the topic as if her actions are nothing more than an afterthought when it's all Enjolras can focus on.

That slow motion, toes digging into the tender flesh of his inner thigh, no matter how close to the knee that pressure may be, it doesn't matter; it's maddening.

He's never been touched so, so inappropriately before.

Even worse is the fact his body is betraying him, is reacting to the touch.

When her other foot, thankfully still adorned with a shoe, nudges against his own, well, enough is enough.

He moves one hand beneath the table, grabbing the offending limb by the ankle, forcing himself to focus on Combeferre's words and not how strange the shock of bare flesh feels in his grasp.

Cosette stills in his hold, the smile finally leaving her lips in exchange for a perfect poker face. All motion has halted and Enjolras allows a sigh of relief to leave between his lips, drawing his hand back.

Only her toes catch at his finger, giving a squeeze of greeting before her retreat, heel of that bare foot resting atop him knee. By the grace of god though, she remains blessedly still now, seemingly turning her full attention on Combeferre.

But Enjolras is very much aware of the contact that exists, that deceptively little foot seems to weigh more than anything he's ever carried in his life. He just needs to get through this meeting. He just needs to calm down.

He needs Cosette to stop doing whatever that was. Whatever this is.

 

 

 

 

"What was that?!" Enjolras hisses, rage rumbling in his every nerve, heart pounding in his throat.

Cosette folds her arms, refuses to back down, to bend or even showcase that she has done wrong in any way, shape or form.

"You're an absolute fool," she grumbles, one hand tugging at the waves of brown hair that frame her face.

What Enjolras doesn't understand is how he has become the fool in this situation. He hadn't been running his foot up the length of another’s leg, after all.

"Can't you see we're not going to find a better match for each other?" Cosette growls and of course this is about marriage.

Enjolras would laugh were he not so outraged and appalled.

She's been trying his temper for days on end, has lit that fuse and tonight, spurred on by her actions during that discussion, he's finally at the point of an outright (and well-deserved) explosion.

Already Combeferre and Courfeyrac are looking over, Monsieur Fauchelevent too. The first two, of course, had witnessed his brawl with Allumiere four years prior; they're both well aware of Enjolras' limit. It's a wonder they never noticed earlier.

But he cannot lose his temper here, cannot rip Cosette down to size because verbally she gives as good as she gets; physically and everyone would pull him off her and rightly so. He is a man, Cosette (despite her tendency to 'experiment' with metal) is a woman and thus, weaker than him. Though given the way she carries herself and refuses to admit that, Enjolras is rather certain she'd be just as eager for a physical fight.

Gods, he left his father's home in order to escape these kinds of talks, the pressure of carrying the family line on.

"Listen, I need to marry and soon. I've already got fools lining up at the door and I’m only two months shy of sixteen, so to speak. This way, we both get what we want. You don't stop me from chasing my dreams, I don't worry about your mistress."

"Mistress?" Enjolras snaps, tone quiet even as he shoots a quick glare towards the rest of the Amis. What have they been telling her?

"Patria," Cosette expands, huffing as she folds her arms across her chest, "it's not ideal for you, and I know you can happily go on without getting married at all. But I can't. My Papa won't be around forever and the second he's not there to protect and provide for me... The Les Amis are the best of a bad lot, and you've been top of my list for a while. Because the rest acknowledge I'm here, but they don't listen." The last word is stressed particularly hard, Cosette's features collapsing in a moment of weakness that startles Enjolras. "Not like you do," she finishes, wrapping up her little speech with a grimace, teeth digging into the tender flesh of her lower lip as if trying to cage the sheer fragility of that sentence.

This is utterly absurd.

He's been peripherally aware of a woman's place in society, but he'd never quite registered what exactly that would be for Cosette. He'd never placed her within the same box as the others, never considered that even the little summer storm that'd swept forcefully into his life would have to someday bow to the expectations of society. Had never considered her to be in a less privileged position than the rest of the Amis, never considered her as anything but one of them since she began attending the meetings. She is after all, far from poor and suppressed, not like those Les Amis fight for..

There's a sadness in her eyes, one that shouldn't make its home in one who strives for a future as bright as the one he too sees on the horizon.

"Marius is-"

"He doesn't see me," Cosette cuts him off, "he sees this pretty little idea of a beautiful wife. It's why he always looks so god damn startled whenever I come out with something particularly articulate. I can't live like that; I've been there once already, doing what I had to in order to survive. I won't do it again. I'd soon throw my own grand Revolution and die fighting. Look, it doesn't need to be some glorious love story. Just a marriage in name only. Nothing else changes. Our debates, your revolution, my inventions, it all stays the same... please don't make me beg, Enjolras."

She holds his gaze for a moment and the storm seems to have died. There's no more sweeping winds or rolling clouds, just a perfect stillness, even as the dry air crackles with the promise of lightning if the right ignition is lit.

He dithers, for if he is Apollo, then what could they possibly name Cosette? She embodies too many of the Greek gods (the smith, the academic, the lightning bearer) to ever settle upon one.

In truth, he does not know what sits at her core, has just come to know her as this never-drying fountain of big ideas.

She's Pandora's box. All the thoughts and ideas that pour from her, each one causes him more and more work, forces him to think hard, consider longer. Yet, he revels in it.

The question is, does he wish to be the fool to open it, to unlock all that lies within?

Is it hope that lives eternal within the base of that box? The whole myth escapes him, but he recalls it being rather apt, that though all of the evils slipped free, it was the purity of hope that remained caged.

"I will consider it," Enjolras says, a deep sincerity laced within his voice despite his distaste for the idea.

Unfortunately, Cosette makes an exceptionally valid point.

Should her grandfather die, that will leave her alone. A young woman all alone with an inheritance the size of which Enjolras can only begin to guess. She would be ripe for the picking; a Bourgeois man, a royalist could marry her and burn through all that money on lavish, unnecessary trinkets, all the while chaining Cosette down. No more inventions, no more research, no more rousing discussions.

While Enjolras would like to believe his fellow man would not be stupid enough to dare limiting Cosette (oh, the advances she alone could make in a society without oppression) ...he knows this world all too well. It is why he fights so hard for change, after all.

"That is all I can ask. Thank you, Enjolras."

 

 

 

 

In some respects, it feels as if he has signed a deal with the devil; he has not yet agreed, and it already encloses around his neck, his wrists, those words a metaphoric metal shackled to his ankles as a great big weight, dragging him deep beneath murky depths, never to surface again.

Cosette sits upon the other side of the room as if she has not just thrown him to the river, left him to drown in that water fed by the unshed tears from her eyes, filled with the same deep sadness she had expressed upon her face.

It is as if the water closes in above his head; Enjolras can find no reasonable explanation, no sensible excuse to get himself out of this and he’s drowning. He can find no long-term reason that would outweigh the benefits for Cosette and ultimately, for France. He's not selflessly sacrificing himself; France shall always come first within his heart and mind.

But Cosette is an asset in this good fight. The factories she has created, the school houses and her progress in the variety of subjects she studies, it has all lead to progression within France's economy. Not enough to drag his beloved country from the dregs it had currently found itself in (the very reason there has been a rebellion to begin with was discontent with the state, another such movement is unavoidable, it's only a matter of time) but she has made an impact.

For the betterment of his country, he cannot risk allowing Cosette and her creations to become the property of another, one without France's best interests at heart. At worst, she could potentially end up belonging to an extension of the crown; the laughable excuse of a court would never agree with the opinion of a woman when pitted against that of her husband’s.

One of the other Les Amis... each one of them is a problem.

Now that Cosette has mentioned it, Enjolras cannot turn a blind eye upon how his fellows treat her. They are respectful, of course, treating Cosette with more intellectual respect than any other woman... but they look upon her as a novelty. It's not an acceptance of her as a person, just an acknowledgement that this strange woman can think like they can. They recognise her thoughts, but not the source.

Even they, despite the steady steps they take towards enlightenment, do not see Cosette as something more than a woman. A gender that Enjolras himself has never honestly considered past how such a thing would hinder her.

Whenever he has looked upon Cosette, he has just seen another of the Les Amis, admittedly one who did not often contribute vocally during meetings. He can see why Cosette has made her decision to ask him of all people first.

How irritating.

No matter how he thinks on this, he only finds himself sinking deeper into the depths, that each movement of his body as he tries to surface is only dragging him further down. It would be better for France as a whole, better for the upcoming revolution… he had once stated he would not flinch to kill for his country and fellow countrymen. Would not hesitate to die.

So why is it that he oscillates now?

Marriage is far from a sin, as it would be to kill another man, no matter the cause. Throughout his life, Enjolras has steadily become more and more disenchanted with the concept of religion, of faith, especially given all that occurs around him.

During that time, all he can think of is the good Samaritan, of those who had the power to aid but did not. God gives them nothing but the means, it is their decision to use what he has gifted.

And now he stands upon the riverbed, bound by his own words of promise and ideals.

 

 

 

 

As if sensing that he has come to a conclusion, Cosette lingers far longer than she would any other night.

Candlelight has dimmed, wax dripping into the brass basins below, flames flickering. Already Grantaire is passed out across the table-top, one hand still clutching at the neck of an empty bottle, drained dry by his inability to remain sober.

Grimacing at their resident sceptic, Enjolras makes his way back over to Cosette, claiming the seat beside her but quite unable to meet her eyes, despite knowing his decision.

It feels like defeat, somehow. He’d been so sure he would never marry, that he could devote his life to France and revolution and the general betterment of his countrymen.

But now he has this fluctuation in the plan that he must account for, this upset that has ruined his stability. Yet, he refuses to be the darkness that visits those in need, refuses to be the ignorant that turns away from those requesting help.

It is not as if Cosette is demanding he give up his ideals of revolution, demanding he give up his intentions towards France. Though referring to his beloved country as his ‘mistress’ is far from untrue.

He would die for his country without hesitation, he knows that with absolutely certainty. It would take extraordinarily intense circumstances before he willingly died for Cosette.

He still cannot even bare to look at her, the ghostly imprint of her foot running up his leg still irritatingly present. He’s not sure if he’s grateful or annoyed that she begins the conversation for him.

"Marriage is just the joining of two family lines, sometimes not even that comes from marriage, but it’s certainly a pooling of material possessions; why can't marriage be a joining of ideals as well? It is not as if many marry for love, is it?”

She’s looking ahead also, hands folded primly atop her knees. He doesn’t believe it for one second, he knows exactly how far she’s willing to go, chasing after something she believes worth it, knows whatever ‘proper’ behaviour she displays is nothing more than an act.

While he can respect that unflinching drive, Enjolras is far from pleased to have been upon the receiving end of it.

Combeferre bids them a goodnight, the last (barring the ever-quiet Monsieur Fauchelevent and the loudly snoring Grantaire) to leave.

His fellow looks between the two of them with confused suspicion in his eyes. It sets Enjolras’ teeth on edge, his muscles tensing and Enjolras cannot sit, not right now.

Instead, he settles for pacing, hands clasped behind his back; is he truly about to agree to this?

“Enjolras?”

Twisting to acknowledge the address, the blond rolls his shoulders back, taking note of Cosette’s hand. Raised and a mere inch off from touching his arm, probably to gather his attention.

She has, however, halted the motion before contact could be made. It’s a small thing, and he appreciates it.

It’s a shame he can drum up so very little good will right now.

Cosette's eyes smooth down from his own, dropping no lower than his chin. She's looking at his lips, staring even as he gives her the same frustrated glare that has driven so many women off.

He doesn't move an inch as Cosette steps closer, rising to the tops of her toes, and presses her lips against his.

There's no sudden epiphany, no unexpected bolt of wonderment or an overwash of emotion; it's just Cosette's lips against his. Skin against skin, a contact that differs from others only in the meeting of two body parts previously unacquainted. It's not... unpleasant, but he cannot understand for the life of him why people chase this.

Cosette retreats, lids peeling back to reveal the dark blue of her eyes.

"See? It's not that horrific, is it?" she murmurs, head tilting to a side as she studies him and, most probably, his reaction.

He cannot quite drum up the emotion he wants, still stuck on the fact he was correct; this is nothing a man should ever lose his mind over. It is a sweeping relief, almost crushing a realisation. It is not some ornate, gilded cage to be trapped within. Not the passionate kidnapping of common sense and logical thought as the books had so often hinted at.

Just lips meeting lips for the briefest of moments.

"Once again, why are you so against marriage then? I thought we understood one another well enough; we could carry on with what interests each other, married in name only and sharing a public kiss once in a blue moon with the odd witness or two to give an illusion of truth."

Logically he knows it's not a half bad idea; it gives Cosette a reason to be seen out and about with him, no dragging her disgruntled father along after her. While he may have protested the idea two months ago (two hours ago)... things change.

The assurance that he shan't lose his mind, shan't become a slave to his baser instincts, is a significant weight removed from his chest.

"Just a rare kiss in public?"

"No husbandry duties, I promise," Cosette says solemnly, a wicked smirk adorning her face a moment later. "Unless you want to, that is."

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

 

**December 1830**

 

 

 

They come to an agreement. There’ll be a brief period of courtship, and then a month or so after her sixteenth birthday, there will be an engagement announcement.

The repercussions of such a thing are already hitting her hard.

Valjean has questioned her plan several times already, the worry clear on his face. She can understand why, given his viewpoint. She’s young, uncomfortably so. Enjolras is eight years her senior and physically, he’s resplendent. Valjean probably thinks her enchanted, under the spell of his beauty and the fierce passion he bleeds for the cause.

He’s not wrong, not really.

She is amazed by Enjolras, but it’s his mind, how willing he is to question his place and all that makes up his environment that she is so enthralled with. Were that mind situated in the body of an average looking man, she’d still have happily chased after him.

Perhaps it is only right that his outer appearance matches what lays beneath. To her, he seems like perfection, physically, mentally, but emotionally? Emotionally, Enjolras is lacking. It’s not that he doesn’t feel, he speaks of the revolution, of France with far too much passion for any to claim him true marble.

But romantic relations? Social interaction? He’s awkward enough when the rest of the Amis begin speaking of everyday life, of their interactions with others, all that small talk. Usually, Enjolras stares at them for a second or so before he rolls those startlingly blue eyes and returns to his notes.

That or he’s snapping at Grantaire to put the bottle down and take things seriously. Or just questioning Grantaire’s overall presence with them.

But that’s okay, Cosette’s not so great at all of that either. She’s just a little better at faking it that Enjolras. The small talk that is. She cannot come out with incredible speeches like he can, cannot inspire the people. Hers is a slow thing, a gentle wash converting a person’s mind.

Enjolras is a tidal wave, slamming into a person and knocking them off of their feet and perceived notions, awash in his beliefs until they can do nothing other than accept them.

Perhaps they shall make a half decent match, a duo capable of the two key types of interactions between them… Who knows.

It’s that, or together they’ll end up rubbing everyone else up the wrong way. Where Enjolras seems to find social interaction distasteful… Cosette just finds it tiring. It’s probably another factor that contributes to her startling lack of female friends.

“Wha’did’ya say to Enjolras? He’s been snappy since that meeting last week.”

Rolling out from beneath her next attempt at a motor vehicle (it’s all going to go so much better now that she’s got some actual crude oil to play with, even if she has been forced to refine it herself), Cosette grapples with the loose stands that have fallen free of her admittedly loose plait, eyeing Gavroche.

“We talked. Came to an agreement on some things, caused lots of problems for our acquaintance with it.” There’s no dancing around that. She’s seen Enjolras once since he’d conceded to her request and it’d made her feel sick to the stomach.

She’d been aware that Enjolras… wasn’t the biggest fan of being touched. Not if he didn’t have the opportunity to step back and away from it. Her little game of footsie had probably… well, actually, there’s no probably about it.

She had been out of line, she can admit to that.

Combine with their impending nuptials (should Enjolras not get cold feet, but she knows his character, his personality too well for that now), and things are strained. Rightly so.

Cosette has no idea how to fix it.

She can talk to people when she puts her mind to it, can do that social interaction thing that’s required by society as a whole. She even enjoys it sometimes, as long as it doesn’t drag on too long.

The only surety of it is that they absolutely have to talk to one another. There’s no other way around it.

“I dunn’t get it.”

“In all honesty, Gavroche, neither do I. But I do have an idea of… well, not how to fix it, but maybe how to smooth out the rough edges.”

The little former-gamin frowns, arms folded across his tiny chest and an angry tilt to his eyebrows.

“Well ya need to fix it quick. None of the Amis wanna be anywhere near Enjolras right now… ‘cept Grantaire, but he don’t really count.” The ‘Grantaire has either a screw loose, or has rusted it away with all that alcohol’ goes unsaid.

She doesn’t particularly want to do this, but… it is her fault, her mess. She should clear the air and hope for the best. After all, Enjolras’ devotion to a cause is legendary, and if he’s taken to the cause of ignoring her?

Well, unmoveable rock, meet unmatched force.

 

 

 

Finding their golden haired wonderboy isn’t too hard. He’s primarily a law student and as an… asset to the university, Cosette needs only ask and she’s pointed in the right direction to the lecture that’s occurring at the moment.

Slipping in through the backdoors, she shrugs out of her coat, seating herself at one of the empty chairs. She recognises the professor’s face, though his name escapes her.

More importantly, she recognises that halo of golden curls sitting rather close to the front. Not front row, but close enough.

Shifting slightly on the oh so uncomfortable chair, Cosette pulls a notebook from her bag, debating. On one hand, she has some schematics to get sketched up. But on the other, Enjolras might want to talk about the contents of this lecture. She owes it to him to at least try.

The delivery of the topic (civil law) is particularly dull, but Cosette soldiers on, she endured while mentally fortifying herself for the confrontation to come.

By the closing address, four students have snuck not so conspicuous glances at her, while six others have been a bit stealthier in their observations. Enjolras knows she's present; told by his neighbour. She'd been witness to the moment his broad shoulders had tensed, muscles bunching and the vein in his neck standing prominent against marble toned skin. Something discomfortingly close to guilt swirled in her stomach, churning about and flipping her innards.

She's never been one to not face a confrontation head on, especially when such an action is very much so in her best interests, however... she needs a moment to build up the courage.

Evidentially, so does Enjolras, for when the lecture formally finishes, he remains seated, pen balanced precariously between his fingers, tipping back and forth.

Her body feels heavy as she pushes to her feet, legs slipping out from beneath the wooden bench that serves as a surface to write upon. It's ridiculous; she's aware that people have always watched her come and go in this place.

Only, in this moment, she can feel the weight of every stare that has ever rested upon her, especially as she approaches Enjolras.

Is it because, before today, they have only ever sought one another's company in the familiar comforts of the library? That or with the rest of the Amis buffering the collision of egos between them? It's an uncomfortable thought, that they cannot exist peacefully together unless there is a bulwark, one Cosette does her best to banish from her mind. They will make this work, of that she is certain, determined, even. She doesn't really have another choice, not one she could see herself contently living with.

"Enjolras?"

Pressing the book within her arms right to her chest, Cosette shifts slightly from foot to foot as he takes a second longer than he should have done to acknowledge her.

  
"Mademoiselle Cosette." First name basis... but still with the 'mademoiselle.

"May we talk? If you can spare a moment? I believe I have an apology to make." She doesn't care to lower her voice for that last part, let the others wonder, let them question. They'll never guess what kind of grievance Enjolras could possibly hold her to. All they need to know is she considers Enjolras someone worth apologising to.

The man in question flicks her a semi-curious glance, the Blue of his eyes darkened by suspicion.

"No tricks, I promise."

At her whispered promise, he relaxes her so slightly, the tense horizon of his shoulders loosening. "Very well. There's a cafe nearby..."

"Sounds fantastic. You can clear up some of the misunderstandings I've no doubt developed from this lecture."

 

 

 

Shrewd eyes glance around at regular intervals, undoubtedly searching for her Papa, even as they walk together in silence.

Cosette keeps her hands clasped around the notebook she carries, refraining from the urge to reach out and rest her hand upon Enjolras' arm. She's only ever walked along with her father before, Gavroche doesn't count, he's not yet a man after all. Nowhere near in fact. So, it is rather strange, to be walking with company but keeping her hands to herself. The ridiculous weight of the bonnet atop her head has her neck aching but Cosette persists, following after Enjolras as he slips into a well-used cafe. There's a handful of students already present, ones she recognises from the campus rather than any... questionable recreational activities.

It's clearly not a place Enjolras frequents; the waiting staff stare far too much at his beautiful visage to be under anything other than first exposure. And he is beautiful, there's no ignoring that. Even she, who has been in his acquaintance for what seems like an eternity now, cannot seem to set it aside.

"You wanted to speak," Enjolras prompts, vibrant blue eyes sheltered behind the fair feathering of his blond lashes, head tilting forwards as he pours over the menu.

"You'd like the coffee here," she stalls, fiddling with the parchment between her fingers, nails working the crisp edges, recalling her precious visit to this very cafe, "it's similar to your usual... and I owe you an apology."

Giving their order to the near-gawking waitress, Cosette draws in a deep breath, feeling the material of her dress strain with the overly exaggerated expansion of her ribs.

"I'm sorry. While under self-inflicted duress, I not only invaded your personal space, but abused whatever trust you have of me as an acquaintance, and for that I am truly apologetic."

"But not for getting want you want."

"Can you honestly say you wouldn't kill a man for France, Enjolras? One of the supposedly holy commandments and you'd disregard it for revolution? How are we so different in that respect?"

"Because I have not done so."

"Yet."

His jaw tightens, only relaxing to allow the soft mutterings of a 'thank you' to pass between his lips as his beverage is placed before him. Cosette is far from blind over how Enjolras' is gently presented before him while her own is relatively dumped atop the table.

Forcibly biting her tongue and offering some half-hearted thanks of her own, Cosette plucks up the delicate China and takes a tentative sip. At least the quality hasn't lessened in the face of her attractive company.

"It might be romanticised in history, in the stories and the tales, but the truth is that whenever a man goes into battle for his ideals, he has weighed them against human life and found the latter wanting."

"You speak of the morality of a revolution."

"Yes. I'm not saying such a thing is wrong; a man weighs the amount of lives he believes his ideals will save as they bring about change, against the amount of lives he believes his actions will cost. That's what you'll be doing, if you follow through with this revolution. I don't doubt that you'll be able to live with what you do... but how much you'll struggle to hold it together afterwards? You might be content wrapped up in that marble armour, but even that can be weathered down."

Enjolras meets her gaze with little hesitation, his brow heavy, long fingers flexing from where they curl around his cup.

"And?" It's the only thing he says; he knows her now, at least, knows her mind well enough that he's certain she's not going to attempt to dissuade him. Just as he knows her, she too knows him in return.

"You need to find someone to unburden yourself to. Even if that's not me, do it for your own mental wellbeing. Having people to keep you in check... it keeps a person sane." For lack of a true finish, Cosette latches into the teacup, sipping lightly at the brew inside, careful not to slurp. It's the truth; Cosette wishes she'd had someone she could trust to discuss her 'marry Enjolras' plan. Maybe then she'd have seen what a folly it would be to try enticing him in with physical contact.

All she'd succeeded in doing was startling him. She'd certainly got his attention (admittedly what she had been aiming for) but not quite in the way she'd wanted.

Right now, Enjolras seems content to stew, his posture less than the usual perfection so that he may better embrace the heat of his drink.

"If you believe for a second, Mademoiselle, that I have even a crumb of trust for you right now, then you shall surely starve."

"Ouch," Cosette mutters, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. It does hurt, ever so slightly. Well-deserved and she can hardly blame him... it's illogical for her to feel pained at all. However, logic has forever clashed with emotion. It's one of the very well-known failings of man.

"Your thoughts, your beliefs, even your inventions are all things I can acknowledge and accept. But now I shall forever be second guessing your intentions."

The creeping winter freeze, brining promises of snow and hail and sleet and ice; it is all housed within Enjolras' eyes. Arctic chill races down her spine, leaving Cosette's posture rigid as she meets Enjolras' gaze from across the table.

"And what of you? To whom do you unburden to? Whom is privileged enough to witness the exposure of your naked soul, dear Cosette? You speak of wellbeing and morals, of greater rights for the lower class, for women and children. You sprout all these grand ideas, but you also believe yourself above them, assume that it is you who knows best and that your way is the right way."

She's aware that he's capable of being utterly terrifying; this is the first time she has ever been subjected to it. The cutting remarks, the way he ruthlessly pierces to the truth of the matter. There's no disguising that each barb strikes true and Cosette flicks her gaze from his terribly beautiful form.

"You're right, of course. I've never once claimed myself a hypocrite, but it is something I shall admit freely to. I daren't unburden my thoughts and innermost reflections to my father and Gavroche is far from well-read and too immature to be of any help there. Who does that leave me with, Enjolras? The men who sneer at the very thought of speaking to a well-learned, progressive woman? How about my fellow females, who stare across the canyon of difference between us with their judgemental, captious eyes?"

Their eyes meet, electric blue against midnight sky, silently acknowledging one another's point. Enjolras never once offers to be her confidant and Cosette never asks.

The rest of their outing passes in silence.

 

 

As any honourable man would do, Enjolras walks her home, though he allows no contact between their person. For that, Cosette is thankful.

Enjolras moves with purpose, storm clouds rolling through the street as if it were a free summer's sky. Boundless energy crackles within his limbs, all loose shoulders and determined long strides. The sharp relief in the muscles of his jaw, wind dancing with golden curls, stern purse of his lips and the broad set of his brow; every last detail drawers and holds the eye. It's all the very same features that captures a soul, has them glancing out the window to watch lashing rain, sharp shots of lightning and the stalking thunder that follows.

It's no wonder the vast low-lives of the city refuse to accost him. Cosette would never dare either. Not right now.

Perhaps not for a long time.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

The words he had spoken across that cafe table, they were all lessons he has learnt from Cosette's written and oral work. How outré she has not taken her own advice.

Drumming his fingers against the worn wood of the coffee table, Enjolras watches as all of the Les Amis interact with one another, attempting to gaze upon them through the lens Cosette sports. He can see the disinterest she holds towards Marius, Marius who sighs after a pretty face and still remains uncommitted to his desires. Well, perhaps uncommitted is too harsh a descriptor; he's invested, yet, not wholeheartedly dedicated.

Perhaps that is why Enjolras too find cause to look upon the other and frown.

Ill-suited, that's what Marius and Cosette are. Not unless the other man opens his eyes and actually sees the potential of what it is he gazes upon.

Combeferre whom accepts the ideal of love over power, of man over monsieur... perhaps he would have a better chance of life with Cosette. Were it not for the fact the young woman insists upon such blatant progress, were it not for her tendency to be blinded to the small human reactions in the face of her grand new invention, be it a physical piece or psychological effort... No, in that both he and Cosette are alike.

Perhaps most irritating about this exercise is that Enjolras is coming to understand why Cosette remains so decidingly set upon him. Regardless, he has already agreed to this hare-brained madness, to an extent. That is not to say he is incapable of backing out now. It would cause him no due unrest, nor any significant backlash were he to decline Cosette's proposal.

Yet, they would come to disassociate with one other. Such a thought is... well it is neither welcomed nor unwelcome. He would get by, life would return to what it once was.

However, the absence of frank discussions upon politics and revolution, exchanges with a perspective grounded differently to his own would be... he would miss such a thing.

"You're quiet, Enjolras."

Twisting his head slightly and offering Combeferre his attentions, Enjolras ceases his senseless tapping of the table top.

"My mind wanders recently, there are ramifications to a course of action that I am now bound to."

His friend's brow crinkles, lips pressing into an uneasy frown.

"Do not mistake me, Combeferre, the revolution and progression of France is a path I shall never stray from. However, in offering a citizen aid... I appear to have tied myself in knots." Knots that, should they come undone, will most certainly affect the future of his fight for France's liberation from the Bourgeois.

Before his fellow can think to question him, Enjolras draws in a quick, near unnoticeable breath through half-clenched teeth.

"I'll be attending the opera tomorrow." And as if it had been the very statement they'd been waiting for, half of the Amis close by grind to a halt with their discussions.

"You're going to the Opera?" Courfeyrac parrots numbly, looking to the just as startled Combeferre. As if reassuring themselves they weren't hearing things. Enjolras nods, for what else is there to do?

"Who are you going with?"

"Cosette."

"Oh."

There's a strange sort of detachment to their voices, eyebrows puckering as they eye him with a curiosity Enjolras has never once been subjected to. Not by the Amis, not by his parents, not by anyone.

"Well... I suppose if it were going to be anyone, I'd have put my money on Cosette," Jollly mutters, a little tilt to his lips and Enjolras frowns.

What is that suppose to mean. Do they truly believe him incapable of forming personal connections with others, to the point his only moments of association are with those who invade his sphere of contentment? That cannot be correct; none of the Amis have any idea at all how Cosette forcibly muscled her way into his considerations and it is not something either of them will ever willingly share. Enjolras out of respect towards preserving Cosette's reputation (a reputation that is far from truth, she's evidentially no delicate lady in the slightest) and Cosette... he's rather sure Cosette could not care less for her reputation if only it weren't for the fact her business and inventions, her respect as an academic, didn't hinge upon it.

Somehow, the feeling persists that she holds her tongue for his benefit too.

Regardless, he has little desire to truly linger upon this topic, favouring instead to turn to the true reason they are gathered around within this room.

"If we have exhausted this avenue of discussion, may we progress to the reason for our gathering tonight." It's not a question.

 

 

 

**January 1831**

 

 

 

As he'd been expecting, the opera is utterly droll and downright boring. Thankfully, the company is not so.

"Why am I not surprised the whole play has been censored to glorify the might of the current regime?" Cosette grumbles, standing and brushing the crumbs from her dress, having snuck some kind of salted potato slices (cooked, of course) into the theatre, hidden from the ushers by the voluminous sleeves of her dress. The risk of being caught with what basically amounts to contraband has been the true thrill of the night, for which the expectations had begun and remained low.

"Because the ever-expanding grasp of our corrupt rulers seek to stamp out the will and fire of revolution?"

"It's an impediment of free-speech, freedom of thought within art. A man, nay, a person should be capable of hollering whatever they wish from the rooftops and never be dragged across the cobbles for their words!"

Cosette's cheeks are flushed, the taste of sparkling red lingering upon her breath. It's sweet a scent, but the first whiff has his mind instantly flying to the ever-present, drunken sceptic of the Amis.

"You have allowed the wine to go to your head, Cosette."

She blinks; the thick black lines that had so delicately emphasised her eyes at the start of their outing have become increasingly smudged, now nothing more than dark wings streaking out from beside the pale bridge of her nose. With her eyes bright, her teeth startlingly white (a thin gap between the front upper two) beneath the light of the full moon, there's something almost deceptively fae like about her. Given the tales of fairies tricking humans into bargains ill-advised for them, Enjolras thinks the look rather suits her, an external reflection of her core.

"Perhaps you should try it, Enjolras."

"Should I partake, no doubt this night will end with an inspector or three." After all, the last time he had gotten drunk was that night he ended up brawling with Allumiere, splitting three of his year-mates’ lips and walking away with only a blackened eye to boast.

Despite the truth of his words, Cosette laughs, as if he has spun a tale of comedy instead of foretold a night of running from the law.

Because Enjolras would not go quietly and he rather feels as if Cosette too would also protest a halt to her merriment. Cosette who is being rather quiet right now.

Turning to look upon her, Enjolras meets the heavy weight of her hazy gaze, awaiting the next blunder to slip from her lips. It comes as expected, an observation she if far from the first to make.

"You're really pretty, Enj... 's a good thing. I'm not marrying you for your personality, after all."

"Neither are you marrying me for my face," Enjolras reminds her, no longer suppressing the emotions (irritation, annoyance, begrudging amusement) that dance across his face as she nods sagely.

"No, I am not. Helps though."

She smiles and it is a lazy thing, natural in a way that her usual simpers are not. It is a shame the wine addles her mind, this Cosette who does not plot, who does not purposefully make his life difficult, is a pleasant one to be acquainted with.

 

 

Or at least, she is for the duration of a short walk. As they grow closer to her home, the lady grows progressively more solemn, to the point she ceases her pace altogether.

"Cosette." He does not have the time nor the patience to talk her down from whatever idiocy she is about to sprout.

What he does not expect is the serious, sad eyes that turn upon him.

"I won't stop associating with you if you decide to back out now, Enjolras." Her words are sincere, but the lady is far from sober; who knows how truthful of a drunk she is? No, Cosette may not hold a grudge in account to socialising with him, but Enjolras would be a fool if he didn't acknowledge that Cosette would silently resent him for it.

"Where has this sudden burst of martyr-like behaviour descended from?"

"Descended... are you implying heaven worthy behaviour from me?" The tease falls flat, Cosette's arm heavy where he forcibly tucks it against his side and her head coming to rest upon his shoulder.

"Should you decide to partake in wine again, please do so outside of my presence." After all, he might be agreeing to marriage, but nowhere does it state he will be caring for a drunk as part of his duties. If he wished to apply himself to that, then he need not look further than Grantaire's slumped form.

"I make no promises," Cosette slurs, pressing her lips hard together before they twist up at the corners. "Thank you, my gallant prince, for-"

"I mean it, Cosette."

She stills, finally reacting how she should (how every person before her has ever reacted to this particular tone)

"You really do look as if you are about to extract merciless justice from the heavens... no more wine. I promise." With a semi-serious nod to her head, Cosette looks to the gate that separates her house from the road, the cottage not more than a half-minute away, and red lips pressing into a hard white line.

“Thanks, for walking me back. ‘S probably a good thing ya’ did.” The way her eyes traverse the vacant street showcases exactly what she thinks would have happened, and given the current state of the country, Enjolras wouldn’t put it past a few desperate souls to attempt mugging her. He wouldn’t put it past a few despicable souls to attack her for reasons that have nothing to do with monetary gain. Cosette wiggles her arm free from where he holds it, not that Enjolras puts up much of a fight to allow her to free it. A palm, small and thin but covering in various nicks and scars, is presented before him with fingers dancing lightly through the air.

"Ya, know, hand holding is slightly more intimate than just and arm around my back, or my hand tucked against your ribs." Cosette smiles, though the motion is far from comforting; it houses an emptiness he wouldn’t have expected of her drunken self. Her hand is still held out towards him, palm face upwards as moonlight catches on the callouses.

Enjolras considers those fingers (absent of their usual ink spot stains) for a moment before he takes a gentle hold of her hand and tucks it within the crook of his elbow once again.

"Not yet then," Cosette mutters, but her words hint that she knows this much is perhaps slightly more than he is already comfortable with. There's an understanding glint to her eyes; it's better than that discomforting emptiness, the giddy drunkenness.

The last few steps to her place of residence are completed in silence, Cosette steadily nodding off where her head rests upon his shoulder and Enjolras is quiet done for the day, perhaps even the week. He allows Cosette a moment to fiddle with the lock upon the gate, the easy groan of metal on metal the only sound between them.

“Good’ight, Enjolras.”

“Goodnight, Cosette.”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

 

**March 1831**

 

 

 

The rest of Cosette's fingers look bare in comparison to that of her ring finger, which now sports the physical proof of their... relationship.

Enjolras does his best not to look upon it too closely, to not consider it too thoroughly, for surely if he does so then the very image will be forever burned into the back of his mind. A thin band of Russian gold, cradling a single Ceylon Sapphire with no further adornment. Cosette had supplied him with the engagement ring herself, claiming to not know (nor trust, is the unspoken truth) his taste. It is an admittedly simple thing and while he would love to state that he had not expected Cosette to favour simpler designs for her jewellery, the truth is he knows too little of her to really claim such a thing. Made only more irritating by the fact she had the right of it, selecting her own engagement ring that is.

He does have an inclination towards favouring red, after all.

Nevertheless, it suits her small, thin fingers, the soft shades managing to calmly draw the eye away from the callouses and scars that cover her hands, derived from her inventions. Despite his desire to forcibly ignore its existence... it still calls his eye to its foreboding form. It's the beginning of the end now, an open acknowledgement of what he has committed to and more than once he has looked upon his face in the mirror and questioned. Just what is he doing, how have things spiralled to this point?

It is not that he is against this marriage... yet, he is. He shall go through with it, wade out into those ferocious waters and brave the chill that seeps into his feet without complaint, without turning tail and fleeing the cold. This is for France, it will be prosperous; Enjolras has always silently vowed to aid France and her citizens wherever he can. No, he has no problem with this.

What is an issue is the personal infliction the situation strikes true with, cutting deep into his chest, breaking back ribs to scoop out innards and settle within the new hollow. It is a new weight in his thorax, hidden behind the breastbone with roots sinking deeper and deeper. It's a force, a force that sees him constantly pushed into a state of acknowledgement, constantly aware of the presence that he is welcoming (however unenthusiastically) into his life. He's aware of Cosette's position whenever they find themselves in the same vicinity as one another, aware in much the same way he imagines criminals upon the run find themselves; exceptionally conscious of the terrible weight that could bear down upon them at any moment, forever paranoid of its impending presence.

"Enjolras? Are you well?" questions Cosette. Those delicate black lines she had modelled bracketing her eyes during their outings are absent now.

They are situated within her workshop, Monsieur Fauchelevent undoubtedly lingering... somewhere in the vicinity. Enjolras doesn't care to ask after his future... grandfather (father? Cosette has blurred the lines of her relation to the man spectacularly). Instead, he perches himself upon the edge of a workbench, after ensuring there are no freshly created scribbles upon the surface. The absolute last thing he needs is a mirror imprint of whatever ramblings on human nature Cosette has produced inked across his rear.

"As well as one can be, I do suppose."

Pale lips thin but Cosette does not push any further down her line of inquiry, instead turning her back upon him again to focus on her machinery. Her fingers wrap tight around a wrench, other hand digging in the toolbox by her side for a bolt of some form. Despite the winter chill that persists even into March, Cosette's sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, exposing pale forearms along with the many burns they boast. They're hardly subtle things, small in size but numerous in a way that cannot be ignored, all within varying stages of the healing process. Pale pinks, flushed fuchsias, raw reds; a great variety of shades. She must feel his eyes, for the moment the bolt is placed and the wrench is positioned for the appropriate application of pressure, Cosette pauses in her motions to fix him with a look.

"A lot of materials are easier to mould when heated," she states, not outright acknowledging that she has felt the burn of his gaze, but the soft confession is hint enough. Enjolras can relate; it is easier to work a man over, to open his eyes to the slights dealt to him when his blood runs hot. Easier to drum up support for a cause when innards boil and churn until it feels as if nothing more than hot steam curdles within the throat, ready to be set free. A lot of things are easier when heated, so that the application of pressure will see a substance bend, not break.

The class divide is already warming the water. But Enjolras needs it boiling.

"How did the engagement happen." It's what he needs to know, what he's come here for. To learn the lie, to absorb the tale until the falsity lays still upon his teeth and coats every word to leave his mouth whenever they speak of this. It'll be a bitter taste, of that Enjolras is sure. But no more bitter than the sharp twinge of injustice he samples every day.

Cosette hums, small hands wrapping tight around the wrench as she throws her weight into the movement, the bolt twisting as biceps strain with effort. He can respect Cosette's pride; even though he's standing right here, even though he's clearly stronger than her, she doesn't ask for any form of help. There's a kind of 'can-do' attitude to her, a determination to complete a task solely by herself; evidence that just because she's female, doesn't mean she's not capable.

"No one will believe us if we declare it a romantic moment," she begins, peeling the wrench from the bolt and then fitting it back on at a different angle to throw her weight at once again. The process occurs twice before she continues, "so, let's go with something simple. We had a debate on why it would be easier to continue our association with one another if we were married, and we agreed it'd be a far more efficient way to spend our time if we weren't wasting hours jumping through the hoops of proper courtship." Thin shoulders, taunt with the tension she's applying to her invention, shrug with deceptive delicacy. The solution she has offered is an easy one, they are both beings of the mind, ruled by their intellect, not their heart. Even more so on his side; Cosette has shown a tendency towards the softer emotions, the way she always slips a couple of coins to whatever flavour of orphan happens to be passing by. Some fools might call it maternal, but Enjolras is not so sure himself. He's never seen Cosette swoon and coo over a baby, after all.

Not that they shall have to worry about such things. As Cosette once declared, none shall know what goes on behind closed doors. Enjolras has no intention of ever reaching the level of intimacy that is required of reproduction. Outside parties, though there may be a small minority that presume him at fault, will undoubtedly assume Cosette barren. Because that is just how society has taken to concluding matrimonial problems. If something is wrong, surely it must be the woman's fault.

"As simple as that."

"Well, you're hardly the type for fireworks and roses, are you?" Cosette chirps, lips lifting at the corners, a fine smile stretching wide across her face by genuine humour. There's one final tug, muscles bunching beneath pale skin, before Cosette is stepping back and away from her latest wonder. He doesn't have the slightest clue what it is, but upon seeing the slight frame of her shoulders trying and failing to fill even a quarter length of what she has created, it hits home how comparatively younger than him she is. Barely a scrap of a girl, and already those self-obsessed profligates flock, a murder of crows surrounding her. Her guardian isn't even dead yet and they are already testing the waters.

Enjolras hopes they find them boiling.

"Would you care to stay for tea, Enjolras? Or do you have other places to be?" Dusting the grime and dirt of her hands upon a rag, Cosette cocks a hip out to one side and shifts her weight to the opposing leg, one dark brow high on a pale face.

The attempt to give him a graceful bow-out of the situation is masterfully delivered but, ultimately, wasted upon one who cares little for such social niceties as he. Especially here, with the one person who presents him with no pretexts when absent of an audience. Such an attitude would have been far more appreciated a few months ago, when her feet had been brushing up his leg. Then that travesty of a moment could have been easily avoided. Maybe even this entire situation. But Enjolras is not a petty man, he will not whine, he will play according to the cards he has at hand.

"I've all that I came here for."

And despite the rudeness, despite the sharp snap of his words, Cosette smiles with all the grace of a woman who's received niceties and compliments.

"I knew I picked the right one," she murmurs, throwing the dirtied rag on one workbench, striding over while clever fingers adjust the hem of the men's shirt she wears. "As long as we're honest with each other, there's no reason this cannot possible work." Enjolras begs to differ, but for the first time when faced with an opposing opinion, he keeps his mouth shut. Just this once.

It's going to fall apart somehow, maybe not in the first year, maybe not the second, but the sensation of impending disaster persists.

 

 

 

 

Of course, the second the ring upon her finger is spotted, there's a dull roar among the Amis.

Enjolras can feel the moment their focus upon his speech slips right through his fingers; this time he just grits his teeth and accepts it. One day. This eagerness to gossip and partake in mindless sensibilities will only take one day. He will ensure it.

They crowd closer to Cosette, making the most ridiculous noises while several look back to him with raised eyebrows. Enjolras meets every last one with a hard stare and they very quickly return their attention to Cosette. She weaves a tale for her hungry crowd, filling their minds with tales of occasions past, just the right amount of romanticism to her words to entice and engage. Were one to strip back the flowery overtones, the naked truth would persist beneath; that these instances were nothing more than meetings of cold, calculating minds, each focused upon a different endeavour and tied together by nothing more than happenstance and an opportune series of circumstance. What she offers them is all flavour and no true substance, but they devour each morsel anyway. For all that Enjolras has opened their eyes to the lies fed to the masses, they still fail to detect the honeyed poison they consume when it is severed from another's plate.

He has his work cut out for him, that is for sure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Despite having secured Enjolras' cooperation, despite the simplistic ring upon her finger that announces she's spoken for, despite all of this and more... still some fools persist. They linger as formal meetings tie to an end, they proclaim in undertones (and occasional overtones too) that they could provide a ring more bereft to a woman of her wealth. It goes unsaid they consider her suitor (one whom they do not know of, whom most have never met) to be beneath her when measured by monetary means.

In response, Cosette has crafted her mask, that of a lovestruck young woman incapable of being brought to heel through any means of reason or logic. After several instances where she has exercised such a defence, the men take their campaign to her father instead, who replies as she previously instructed, proclaiming her fiancé a good, honourable man who satisfies his criteria for a 'son-in-law'. They grumble, try their hands at persuasion, but it never works. Admittedly, she need only surround the two of them with others of nobility to still the discussions. It is, after all, poor breeding to chase a promised woman. Especially one of such obscure background. Wealth screams louder than origins however, one only needs to look upon the Fauchelevent family's new standings for that to be made clear.

"I never realised weddings cost such an extortionate amount."

"In both time and effort as well, Papa," Cosette agrees, peering at the scrapbook of designs she has created for a dress. While it shall not be a big day (no monumental thing with hundreds of guests and thousands of flowers for her), Cosette has admittedly always envisioned something of a spring loveliness. It shall not be the pristine wedding that would have occurred during her former life, even she is not capable of such a thing in this time. But it shall be traditional by her standards (potentially revolutionary by that of the present-day man; Enjolras would have been pleased, in a world where he had any he had any enthusiasm for this grand event at all) and that will simply have to do.

"Are you certain this is what you want, Cosette?"

"It is a step towards what I want," she confesses, tucking one dark strand of hair behind her ear, "as a woman, my options are limited and, despite his cold exterior, Enjolras is kind." Even if he doesn't seem to realise it. The man is marble, hard and cold, a face cut from precious gems, captivating and sharp. But despite all of that, he is kind. It is just a kindness absent of any softness. She can trust in his behaviour, for despite his capacity to be so terrible and great, he is honest about every aspect of himself. There are no deceptive facades, no falsities. Cosette is aware of the kind of man she is tying herself to, and while he makes a terrible choice for a loving husband, so does every other man she knows. Only, for a multitude of different reasons.

At least with Enjolras she shall not have to suppress portions of herself in order to play the perfect wife.

"As for what I want... I don't believe I shall ever be satisfied." She never had been in the previous life. The wage gap, the inequality, the rampant white male privilege... all of that seems so trivial now in the face of her... 'present' day problems. Cosette is hungry, hungry for a better world, a world she's had a taste of, a world she's been starved of for far too long. It's a craving that shall never be satisfied, not in this life, not for as long as she lives. But by god is she going to try gorging herself on as much as she can stomach. "I'm not a good person like you, Papa. I see so much indifference and while I want to help... a larger part of me wishes to fight."

It curls within her chest, humanitarianism churning together with eudaemonism. Cosette's desire to help the lower class does not stem from the goodness of her heart, she's self-aware enough to recognise that. No, it all comes from a desperate attempt to recreate the environment of her previous life, even though such a thing shall never be achievable within her lifetime. It is a constant strive towards the familiar, that much is clear. Every person, at their core, undoubtedly believes their way is the right way. Who is to claim what is good, when weighed against their own morals and concepts? Who holds that right?

"There is... discontent among the workers."

"Why?" Startled by the change in topic, Cosette drops her pen, twisting from her pages to look upon her Father's face.

"They worry that with your impending wedding, ownership of the workplace shall transfer to your husband."

"And that their workers' right shall be beneath his control too," Cosette concludes, reclaiming her pen from the desk top and snatching up a fresh sheet of paper. "I'll write a statement addressing the issue and have it sent out to be announced. Maybe some copies to put up in the workplace so that those who can read will be reassured by the written word."

For as kind as Enjolras is, this is her workforce, her people. It's not up to the standards of her previous life, shall never be without those advance technological developments.

Her Papa is watching with tired eyes, but there is a pride there, as sure and steady and strong as he is. There's a burning sensation of accomplishment in her gut, a sensation that stirs every time she receives that look. This is a man who has sinned, experienced religious enlightenment, and dedicated the remainder of his life to atonement.

Cosette has been born into this world with eyes wide to the folly of Christianity and a disdain for the fatalistic ideas of an omnipresent god.

"You are a good girl, Cosette." How he can say that when there is such a bold contrast between them, Cosette does not know.

"That's subjective. But I appreciate the compliment, Papa."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ignoring the vast array of stares as she comes to a halt, Cosette peels her form from the bicycle prototype with as much grace and dignity as can be managed when half straddling a metal contraption in a dress.

"My lady?"

"Louis, this is our latest and greatest."

The man looks upon her, clearly befuddled, but none the less comes closer. He watches with curious eyes as she plucks rolls of paper, tied neatly in the middle with thin twine, from the wicker basket on the front of her bike.

"For those who cannot afford the automobile, but still have some money, we have the bicycle. Easy transportation and without a mind of its own." Superior to horses in every way. Cosette has nothing against the beasts, but they are... hazardous at both ends and create so much mess. The bicycle is a contraption now built with her own two hands, made as reliable as it possibly can be in this world, this timeline.

Louis hums, loosening the twine to inspect the parchment upon which the schematics reside, his brows knitting together as he slowly works his way through the instructions.

"I'm working on a way to mass produce, so that less people will be doing the heavy lifting and instead they'll be more overseeing mechanical aids that do it for them," Cosette murmurs, smoothing down the slight rumples of her skirt as she speaks. Being able to construct some equipment to lighten the load on workers, to improve their quality of life and their overall life expectancy will undoubtedly build even more esteem towards her. That it will discomfort the other factory owners is one blessing more. Eventually they'll realise she's far from deluded and that her way is better, that it is more humane. It's common curtesy to look after those who need aid... it is one of the morals she has exercised against Enjolras in order to secure his hand in marriage. Cosette understands the guilt that intermingles with compassion, a thankless lover who takes and gives with each visit.

"Our backs will thank you for it, Mademoiselle," Louis murmurs, topping his head to her in a gratuitous nod that Cosette acknowledges with a hum. There is so much to do, plenty to accomplish. Between all of that, she must plan an acceptably simplistic wedding too.

Delightful.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**April 1831**

 

 

 

 

He'd been under the belief that marrying Cosette, watching her approach in white satin and silk ladened limbs, would have him apprehensive, perhaps indignant, or even experiencing a sensation of entrapment. Instead, there's just a feeling of emptiness, a hollow sensation in his chest, leaving him nothing but an objective stance with which to partake in the proceedings. There's only Gavroche and Cosette's father present; all the Amis would make far too much fuss and Enjolras has already sent a letter to his family to inform them of his change in matrimonial status. What a shame it shan't arrive until next week.

"...to be your lawfully wedded wife?" It's strange, the sheer amount of thoughts that can run through a man's head in a mere moment. All the doubts (not quite doubts, more 'what ifs') that suddenly spark and burn, brighter and bolder than ever before. But there's also the certainties; Cosette may very well ask more of him than he's willing to give, but she shall also respect a denial, shall respect his refusal to anything she asks of him, just as it would be should the rolls reverse and Enjolras request something of her.

It's understandable, why she believes this is the best she could hope for in her life. It's also fans the flames within his chest further, for how many are there that call France their home yet are incapable of acquiring such securities? The ability to deny a person something with the security of no violent outburst to follow, to be able to expect no spite or fury in return. Is that not a freedom to treasure, to clutch tight to one's breast and protect with the might of your body? Only there are those who have never been able to grasp that right, never been able to cradle that assurance of choice without fear of punishment from offended parties. How many more women reside in France who are unable to tell a man no, for fear of physical violence or situational suffering? How many workers are incapable of condemning their current conditions due to the necessity of a pittance pay? The premise is staring at him; Enjolras' brain scrambles, raindrops hitting cobblestones, a sudden shock of impact as he recalls the current situation and what is expected of him.

"I do." The words feel heavy on his tongue, tinged with the sharp flavour this lie has ripened with. He is taking Cosette to be his lawfully wedded wife. But a genuine wife, one who performs her duties, obeys her husband and is submissive to his every demand? No, that shan't be happening here; the entirety of this charade is to allow Cosette to cling to her current freedoms at the restriction of his own. Well, that is not the truth in totality. The only restriction he bares is that he must now look after this young woman, this girl who is now deemed his wife within the eyes of the law and the church. Were Enjolras a holy man, perhaps he'd be capable of feeling that curling viscosity of sin that should undoubtedly be flooding his limbs now. Yet, he's been freed from the shackles of religion's stranglehold, too enlightened, too observant with the way in which he looks upon the world and finds it so desperately wanting to believe any longer.

"I do." Cosette looks to him as she speaks. There's no endless love in her gaze, no romanticised emotions tumbling through the dark of her eyes. Just a steady, quiet gratefulness, a silent understanding shared between them alone. An agreement between a man driven for social change and a woman stepping from the broken shell of girlhood into a world that, if given the chance, would ruin her.

The priest blathers on, holy words that fall deaf upon the ears they are spoken for, Cosette paying them as much mind as Enjolras himself does. It is strange to think Cosette now wears his name, draped across her shoulders as a fine shall of entitlement. One he cannot see her proudly exhibiting to the masses. Subtlety is the name of the game here, Cosette has already set the tone for it by the band upon her finger. Solely Russian gold once again, no gems this time; a simplistic statement. The embodiment of Enjolras' own promise to defend her from the socialist vultures sits heavy upon his ring finger, thin undecorated gold, a cheaper alternative than the platinum his father would have undoubtedly preferred. The time to focus upon the rings is gone now, leaving Enjolras facing a situation he'd thought himself never to deal with.

The kiss is a soft thing, tentative and flavoured with relief. Enjolras' hands rest upon her hips, touch clinical, the white silk of her dress pliable beneath his fingertips. Equally as calm and careful, Cosette's hands rest upon his chest, fingers half way to curling over his clavicles. There is no passionate grip, no needy press of mouth to mouth. This is a business arrangement, a promise devoid of emotion that would otherwise swell and overflow in the idealised groom and bride.

It is not a romantic kiss. Enjolras is not romantic after all and no matter what she may be, Cosette is a considerate woman when no longer forcing her attentions upon an unsuspecting target. She respects his boundaries now that they have been laid clear between them. And while the situation is far from ideal... he can tolerate it, will tolerate it.

Just one more weight upon his shoulders to carry in the march for France. .

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have very little knowledge of France, of French history and the culture of this time. (And don't even asks about my Mechanical knowledge) But I'ma gonna try regardless.


End file.
